


Slave to the Blue Shield

by Tronnie



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tronnie/pseuds/Tronnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Role Reversal: Esca, the son of the Brigantes' chieftain, is injured after a battle against a small Roman patrol. His life is changed when he finds himself saving the life of one of the Roman's taken prisoner from that patrol, and is later given him as a slave. This is an AU parallel to the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been posted for a while on FFnet and ninth_eagle LJ :)

Esca was young and strong, and the sun glinted off his blue-marked tan skin and white, manic grin as he fearlessly guided his father's hurtling chariot across the terrain. He was a son of the Chieftain and a prince along with his brothers, but most of all—and especially now—he was a warrior. His father grinned from beside him and they howled over the thunder of dozens of horses' hooves, from all the chariots and riders swarming down the hills beside them. Every one of his father's five hundred spears were hooting and screeching, running wildly alongside in the charge.

Esca knew what the Romans thought of them—and indeed, what they must look like—countless wild barbarians, as unpredictable as animals, dressed in little but paint and shreds of fur or snarling wolf skins. Esca had had, admittedly, little actual experience against Romans, but he'd grown into a fierce warrior nourished on the words and tales of Roman barbarism and cruelty and dishonor. Romans were as hard and inhuman as rocks, stubborn as goats, and as uselessly colorful in battle as birds.

Even now he saw the small band of Romans they were up against, huddled in their lines and formation, but stubbornly marching forward, towards his own screaming troupe. They were only a few—thirty or so. And Esca couldn't understand how they'd thought they stood a chance in his tribe's lands without being found and slaughtered. His father said they were a messenger group, sent from one camp to another. This would be an excellent chance for some of the new spears to win glory for their tribe.

When the two parties clashed, it was fast. Esca never thought it would be so fast. The blood rushing in his ears made it hard to concentrate as his eyes darted from scene to scene. The noise of screaming horses and men drowned out the clang of metal and wood. Within minutes the air was thick with the scent of blood and Esca was forced to drive the chariot over bodies that the horses skirted over nervously. Beside him, his father yelled and leaned out to skewer a passing Roman and grab his red cloak, dragging him a ways before letting him fall.

Esca sees the fear in the Roman eyes because they know they will not win. At once, he sees his younger brother, Tanca, shoved from his horse, and land hard on the ground in front of a young Roman. The Roman is tall and broad, about his age, Esca guesses, but more than twice his brother's size. Tanca had lost his weapons and appeared to have broken a rib in the fall; Esca watched him clutch at his sides. Esca gave a yell, horrified for his brother, who was just fifteen, but knew that it would be impossible to turn the chariot to get there in time.

The young Roman lunged a step, his motion propelling him forward, but then hesitated, seeing that the boy was weaponless and huddled on the ground. Esca saw that Tanca tried to sit up and glare bravely at the Roman, and his heart swelled with pride—he knew the boy must be terrified. His eyes snapped to the Roman's face and Esca saw his softened gaze a second before he sprinted off, leaving Tanca hunched and white-faced, staring after him.

The whole scene lasted maybe two heartbeats, and then it was over. Esca's attention was forced back to the moment as the chariot lurched and toppled, throwing him under it. He had just enough time to see that his father had landed away from it when he heard a horse scream followed by a crushing blow, and then his world went black.

oooooo

Esca opened his eyes to the watery sunlight coming through the light canvas of a tent ceiling. It was a tent ceiling he knew well—he was lying on his own furs inside his family's tent. He blinked until his eyes focused and frowned, trying to remember how he'd gotten here. A horrible stab of pain all up his right side quickly reminded him.

He could hardly believe he was alive, actually. But that happy realization was quickly overruled by intense irritation when he found he couldn't even sit up on his own. He cursed to himself—he should have just been killed; at least it would have been honorable. He slipped on his elbow and fell flat on his back again, a loud groan escaping him.

His movements were noticed and he saw figures approaching seconds before the door flap was pulled away and his father came in, bending under the low entryway, and followed by Tanca. His pain forgotten, Esca smiled genuinely when he saw the boy, remembering what he'd seen, how brave his brother had been. He was about to say as much when his father beat him to speaking.

"Esca, lad, good to see you awake. How is the leg?" Esca looked down at his leg, surprised to find that it was indeed just a leg injury. From the amount of pain, he could have sworn the entire right side of his body had been mauled and ripped apart.

"I'm fine. Hardly feel it." His father grinned and stooped over, grasping his upper arm to haul him to his feet (Tanca quickly got under his other side when he stumbled and grimaced).

"Excellent. You've missed a good couple days of feasting—and for that I don't envy you: it was some fantastic celebrating—but there is a bit of fun left for you."

Esca tried to swallow the pain as he hobbled beside his father and brother. He didn't care too much about the festivities that he had missed, but he wished he could have shared in the stories of the battle; or at least know what had happened. He could guess that they had obviously won, and as if to further illustrate that, his father stopped him and swept a hand out broadly. Esca, who had been busy with the effort of both walking and maintaining some of his dignity, looked up and realized where they were. The three had stopped in front of a corral-like pen that was sometimes used for young horses, and inside were a handful of men tired tightly together in the center.

Esca recognized them immediately as Romans, specifically some of the Romans from the battle.

"Look, Esca. These are some of the dogs we spared. Strong lads, I'll give them that. They'll make some for some good sport."

Esca knew from the word he used for "dogs" exactly to what sport he was referring. He squinted at the men, trying to see properly, but his head swam from a wave of pain and he suddenly found he could not care less about these Romans or their imminent deaths. He just needed to lie down again and rest, before his father said what he knew he was about to say.

"The first of the fights will be tonight. You should come out to watch. Get some air. It will do you good."

Esca groaned. "Of course. I look forward to it."

His father grinned and clapped him on the shoulder before striding off. Esca slumped against Tanca and grumbled for help back to the tent.

ooooo

Esca sat around the arena later that night, glad for the warmth of the bonfire that cast harsh shadows on everything, especially the dancers prowling and leaping around it to the beat of drums.

The arena was a large pit with high walls that had been dug, and all the members of his tribe were gathering around the edges of it now, jockeying for a good view. Esca could barely keep his eyes open, which he believed was mostly due to something the medicine woman had fed him earlier, but he was just glad it had dulled the pain in his leg a little. Then the crowd fell silent and he watched as a painted man in a wolf skin bounded into the pit and began baying and howling and jumping to the cheering of the crowd. One of the Romans was shoved into the arena and the wolf-man circled him, growling and lunging. He would jump in low and grab at the man's ankles, tripping him, and the crowd would laugh and jeer. Esca smiled a little; he'd seen these things before.

After the people had had their fun, the wolf-man left and the crowd hushed in anticipation. The Roman man in the pit looked around nervously. He still had a bad cut on his head from the battle and Esca knew he had not been fed in the last few days. The crowd parted and two men led two snarling dogs to the edge; they were lunging at the ends of their leashes, ready for blood. Esca absently noted they were two of the tribe's best hunting hounds; he knew them personally to be ruthless killers. They were released suddenly, and leapt into the pit after the man, who managed to get a few solid kicks into them before they ripped out his throat. Esca looked away and called for the ale skin, not particularly wanting to see the dogs worrying at the bloodied corpse.

After the gore was dragged out of the ring the next man was shoved in. He swayed the sight of the dark stain on the sand, and seemed to freeze, though, Esca realized, not from fear. Esca emptied the skin of ale and tried to focus. Something seemed familiar about that man, and as he turned, Esca realized he was the young soldier he'd seen spare his brother's life. Esca's eyes widened at the realization, but already the crowd was hooting again as it parted and a cage was hauled to the edge. This time a large brindled wolf was snarling from inside, waiting to kill.

Esca sat up. His father, from his seat beside him, looked over, interpreting his movement for excitement. "That's a good strong one. 'S why he gets the wolf." Esca wasn't listening, all he could see was the soft look he remembered in the man's eyes when he decided to stay his sword and save his fifteen-year-old brother's life.

The man was tall and strong indeed, with dark hair and eyes. Esca could see he must be well trained and a good fighter. But even a man such as he could not beat a huge wolf when he was two or three days starved and would be made to fight until exhaustion.

Time and sound seemed to stop as he watched the wolf stalk around the pit, less recklessly than the hounds, but just as deadly when the time came. He doesn't know now whether it was because of the ale or what else, but he found himself lurching to his feet, grabbing blindly for a shoulder to steady himself, and shouting over the voices of the crowd. Something was very wrong here; this shouldn't be like this. That Roman didn't deserve this fate, especially not without his father knowing he spared Tanca's life. It was confusing—a Roman who had done something so honorable when Romans never do anything honorable. But this one had. And now he was going to die, dishonorably torn apart by a wolf and left in a shallow grave watched only by crows. No one would light a candle for him and his gods would never know, no one would ever know what he had done—how honorable he had been. That just didn't sit well with Esca.

"Stop—stop this! Not him—not that one!" Esca didn't wait to see if his calls were having any effect, but grabbed the dagger he always kept on him, and threw it. It hurtled and landed at the Roman's feet. He grabbed it and looked up quickly, meeting Esca's eyes. Esca's mouth thinned to a line and he stared intently. He knew very little Latin, but he summoned up enough to say, "Kill wolf!"

Esca's father stood up and turned to him, demanding an explanation. But Esca ignored him, continuing to shout. The men in charge paused, looking from him to his father. They knew they should obey the Chieftain's son, but were waiting for some order from the Chief himself.

Esca's father paused and regarded his son calmly, raising a hand to the wolf handlers. They scrambled into the pit and wrestled the wolf into submission with a net, herding it back into the cage. The crowd all looked in bewilderment to Esca, including the young Roman, still holding Esca's dagger. He felt their eyes and their questions and suddenly knew he had no answer for them. He knew they were all wondering why, but he didn't know. He didn't know why he'd done it—not really. He respected honorable men, but in the long run, one Roman didn't matter. Especially when his purpose as a warrior of his tribe was to destroy them all, no matter how honorable. He knew they were all judging him and he suddenly felt cornered and angry. He didn't want to answer their questions—he didn't have to. He was the chieftain's son.

He got up and stalked away as quickly as his leg would let him, back to his family's tent where no eyes would follow him, least of all the soft dark eyes of the young Roman man.

ooooo

He had collapsed from the drink and exhaustion almost at soon as he'd gotten inside, and woke up the next morning in pain for the second time in less than a day's span. And again, he sees his father's form come in through the tent flap and meet his eyes.

Esca couldn't read his father's face as the man took him in, still lying tangled in the furs with his hair probably everywhere. He imagined he looked ridiculous, and suddenly the memory of the scene he had made the night before hit him. He knew he had drunk a lot, but he still stood stubbornly by what he'd done. He didn't ask about the fate of the young Roman yet, still wary of what his father was thinking.

After twenty years of knowing him, Esca thought he would be able to read his father better. He had always supported Esca, and Esca thought he remembered the look on his face after the initial shock of Esca's first outburst—it was a pause and what might have been contemplation. He could simply hold out hope, because if not he knew he would pay for his actions, chieftain's son or not.

But he held aside the tent flap and beckoned Esca outside. Esca blinked against the glare, his head pounding and his leg screaming. He leaned heavily on the crutch that had been left for him. His father had left him, striding ahead a few paces and coming back soon with a few others. Among them were Tanca and a man he recognized as the one who had handled the Roman prisoners during the fights last night. Also, trudging between them under close watch was the same Roman from the pit.

Esca just stared. He was exactly the same—of course he was—and his eyes were intent upon Esca's own, seeming to ignore everything else around him. He stood meekly, though he was still twice the size of Tanca and could probably take down the other man. He might have been able to escape if he had tried. A terrible pride radiated from him like a sun, and Esca could almost feel the heat of it. He looks back to his father.

"Esca. I couldn't help but notice your interest in this one." He smirked, glancing back to the Roman. "You seemed so intent on saving his life, I thought you might want to do something with it now that you have."

Esca furrowed his brow, his thoughts pacing slightly ahead of his father's words as he began to recognize where this was going.

"So now, he is yours. A slave. And you know, this might be good. He could be a strong one, once fed up. Good for hard work. And now, lad, you need a slave, to help with your healing."

Esca stood in shock, and felt anger begin to curl in his belly. Just because he had the impulse to save this Roman didn't mean he wanted him. And it certainly didn't mean he needed him to help him.

"Father! This—this is not what I wanted! I do not need some Roman—for anything." But his father wasn't listening. He was still looking the man over as if he were a potentially interesting horse.

"What is your name, Roman?" When the man did nothing but squint and blink at him, he tried again in halting Latin.

Never taking his eyes of Esca, the young man answered shortly, "Marcus Flavius Aquila."


	2. Chapter 2

_Marcus Flavius Aquila_. Even his name sounded harsh and too Roman, Esca thought. It ran over his tongue like a strange bitter-sweet wine when he repeated it. Esca scowled. Somehow, any warm feelings he might have had for this man because of his deed were now gone, banished by the humiliating insinuation that his father thought he needed some big Roman to carry him around the camp because he couldn't walk.

Esca glared. "Do you even speak my language, Marcus Flavius Aquila?"

The man shifted and glanced away quickly in what Esca took to be uncertainty. So he grumbled under his breath, "Of course not." He switched to Latin, "You can talk Brigantes, Roman?"

The Roman—Marcus—met his eyes again. "Some."

Esca rolled his eyes. His leg was beginning to twinge again, and he simply had bigger problems than some Roman pet he didn't ask for. He turned and stalked away as best he could.

Marcus stood questioningly, watching him leave, and out of the corner of his eye, Esca saw his father smack him upside the head and shove him after Esca, saying in Latin, "Follow, slave."

Esca had the childish desire to try to outrun him. He knew, of course, that he wouldn't be able to.

ooooo

Esca had only made it a dozen or so steps when Marcus appeared alongside him. He walked awkwardly, noticing Esca's dark expression, and glanced around back towards where his father had been, clearly debating with himself of who he was more wary: Esca or his father. He eventually settled with following Esca as he hobbled all the way down to the lakeshore.

By the time they got there, Esca was drenched and huffing slightly from the effort. He sank onto a mossy rock and sighed, pleased with himself for making it so far. He didn't want to just end up lying around his tent all day like an invalid.

He'd all but forgotten Marcus in his small moment of victory, but the tall Roman was doing his best to not look so tall—in fact he looked like he'd rather disappear into the bushes. Perhaps he assumed he'd be punished for so blatantly not helping Esca walk here like a good slave should.

Esca turned to look at him. The Roman had pulled something out from around his neck and was fingering it absently, nervously; some small wooden figure. He was glancing around quickly, but Esca noticed not the uneasiness he saw before, but fast, calculating eyes taking in a new situation—always ready to adapt.

Esca wondered what he was thinking. He must know enough about wartimes to understand his situation, but it must be disconcerting to not understand the language of your captors, captors who obviously have no qualms about killing you—indeed had planned to all along. The Roman must be as wary as a caged animal, straining to read the humans around it.

"You said you speak some of my language. How much? Do you understand me now?"

Marcus looked up at him but only slowly replied: "Sorry…"

Esca scowled again and sighed, rubbing at the cramps in his leg. He tried again, slowly, "Do…you…understand…me?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that you are my slave?"

"…Yes."

"Do you understand that, just because I am injured, does not mean that I can't kill you where you stand? And that if you even try to harm me, you will have fifty warriors more than thrilled to skewer you, cut you to ribbons, and tack your balls to that huge Roman wall of yours?"

"Uh…I…don't…"

Esca growled and went back to furiously rubbing at his leg, which was not feeling any better. He looked up when Marcus kneeled down in front of him. "Should…you want me help…with your leg?" He looked pointed at Esca's leg.

Esca hesitated. He was no stranger to slaves: being of the head family in his tribe, he had grown up under the care and service of many. But they had never been so close. They had never had faces; they were like animals, tools. Esca did not know their quality, did not know that they were valiant fighters who sometimes displayed great honor, and did not have any connections with them. There was something about this strong, proud, but humble man shoved into the mold of a slave that did not seem right. Not to Esca.

"No."

Marcus stood up slowly and just watched as Esca continued to rub. There was a long space of silence except for the lap of water along the edge, and wind whistling through the cliffs. Finally Marcus turned to Esca.

"Why…did you…stop them, save my life? ...Master."

Esca paused; it was not even a question he was willing to answer to his family. He wasn't even sure he knew the answer himself. So he avoided it. "Why did you spare my brother's life?"

Marcus paused as well, and Esca didn't know whether or not it was because he didn't understand. He said: "I know your kind; they do not spare boys because they are young. I've seen boys killed by Roman hands, friends of mine. You could have ended him easily, quickly. Why did you not?" He realized his voice had gotten quite loud, and cursed even that small show of vulnerability in front of this Roman.

He glared at Marcus as if he were deliberately denying him an answer. But Marcus just looked troubled. "Your…brother? A boy… I killed?"

"No, you didn't! That's just it. You _didn't_ kill him. Why?"

"What boy? From fall from horse? With broken…chest—bone?"

Esca nodded, his mouth a thin slash across his face.

Marcus brushed his hands over the wooden figure again, tracing the contours of it. There was a charged pause while he seemed to think over his response.

"Your brother…he was…strong then. He was no fear at me. He was…young, and…kind face. Not a killer. I kill men…who would kill with no honor."

So that was it. He had spared Tanca because he had seen bravery in the boy's face, bravery in the face of death. And he had admired him enough to spare his life. Esca wondered if Tanca would have done the same for him. He realized then that he probably would have; Marcus had seen in his own brother what Esca did not: that Tanca was not a killer. In a world where being a warrior and a member of the five hundred spears was everything, Esca had not seen that not every young boy dreamt of ruthlessly killing others. He wondered if it was different for Romans, and if that was why Marcus had seen it.

Esca felt suddenly that he had nothing to say. There were too many thoughts and feeling swarming around his head. But he felt Marcus deserved an answer, if nothing else, so he said: "Well, that's why."

ooooo

Esca was back in his family's tent, the sun near setting. Marcus had clumsily hunched around them, serving meat on a large platter to his father and brothers, all the while under the careful and cold scrutiny of his father's gaze. Esca had quickly after sent him away to the slave tent.

As soon as the man had left, Esca's father looked to him. "Why did you do it, Esca? What do you like in this Roman?"

Esca felt the entire tent's eyes on him and bristled at the accusation that he _liked_ any Roman. Romans were not liked, and he knew the entire tribe must have been judging him for what he did. He knew, however, that his father would not continue to indulge his little whim unless he gave an answer; he had standards to uphold.

He drank deeply from his cup. "I saw him during the battle, father. Tanca did too. I saw him spare his life. It seemed honorable enough to excuse him from such a death as by a wolf in the pit. I saw him as a warrior, father. Surely the gods will not appreciate us returning such honor with such a death."

His father regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. "So a more honorable death would be better for him?"

Esca paused, "If that is what you wish."

Esca didn't see his father smirk, but could hear it in his words, "But it is not what you would wish." It wasn't a question. Esca felt his face burn, and announced that he was going to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning's set of footsteps approaching his tent door were not his father's this time, and Esca felt like he couldn't remember the last time he woke up without someone coming to check on him. He supposed it shouldn't surprise him when Marcus came bowing into the tent. Well, he bowed to fit under the doorframe, but Esca decided to pretend it was out of respect.

He grabbed for his crutch, hobbling over to the shallow water basin where he could splash stale water over his face.

Marcus watched silently, for which Esca was grateful, only after supplying a new pitcher of water for him to drink.

Esca struggled to pull on new clothes, having to sit down again, and eventually gave up, flinging them across the tent. Marcus retrieved them and helped him into them quickly and silently.

Esca turned and Marcus had somehow made food appear in his hands and was offering it to him. Esca growled and snatched it, and Marcus made himself insignificant in the corner while he ate.

Esca's leg decided to betray him when he made to stand, and, much to his growing annoyance, Marcus was there under his arm within seconds—the perfect slave.

It didn't matter to Esca if Marcus was a good slave. He could just go be someone else's good slave.

He growled, "Give me back my dagger."

Marcus looked at him questioningly.

"My dagger. The one I threw to you in the pit. You still have it."

Marcus squinted at the words, but eventually pulled the small knife out from under his tunic and held it up. "That?"

"Yes that." Esca snatched it back. He should have remembered it was missing sooner; he was never without it.

Esca glared, wishing his foul mood would rub off a little on Marcus, so maybe he'd feel a little better about himself. But Marcus just continued to do nothing wrong. Maybe Esca could just punish him for being him, for being too good, for being Roman. He probably could, he thought, but it wouldn't be honorable, even he recognized that. That thought just made him more sullen.

Even now, the Roman didn't even pry about the dagger. It was, after all, just an ordinary looking small dagger, not even much use for most things; Esca shouldn't have cared so much about it. He decided he'd make it easier for Marcus; maybe the man would step out of line and Esca would get to yell at him.

"This is my father's dagger. He gave it to me when I was just a boy. It represents the honor of my family and my tribe. Perhaps you wouldn't understand such things, Roman."

Marcus regarded him for a moment before pulling out the wooden figure around his neck, and holding it up. Esca could see now that it was a carved eagle with wings outstretched and head held proudly. It was worn smooth with much handling. Marcus met his eyes again, "My family…honor, too. My father."

Esca felt stunned. It had never occurred to him that he would have something so close in common with a Roman; that a Roman not only acted with honor, but also desired it and cherished it as much as his people. He could not understand how someone so proud could bare to have become a slave. He tried to imagine himself in Marcus's place, but couldn't.

After a pause he asked, "Why are you a good slave? Why do you not fight? Even if you die trying to escape, it would be more honorable than this."

After digesting Esca's words Marcus looked back at his eagle figure. "My honor. You say—about honor. But you save my life. I serve you…I…you have my life. I owe my life."

Marcus seemed mesmerized by the eagle, as if it were telling him stories of his past, like he was only half aware that Esca was still in the room. Esca found himself studying Marcus, his quiet but strong face with brows furrowed in thought; his big hands gently turning the wooden bird. He seemed completely out of place here, even the size of him didn't fit in. Esca's people were smaller and lithe, like cats, silent as slinking shadows when they needed to be. But when Marcus walked it was with big thumping steps that you could hear a mile off. But, Esca thought, together with the equally loud thumping steps of dozens of other soldiers, they would sound like thunder descending upon a foe, command and fury in every step.

They were so different, the two of them, but Esca still kept thinking of ways they were the same.

"So I swear…on this eagle to—of my father: I serve now you, Esca."

Esca snapped out of his thoughts and was drawn into the intensity of Marcus's gaze as it pierced his own. All he could do was nod.

ooooo

Over the next few months, Esca came to accept that Marcus had inserted himself into his life and was becoming a permanent fixture in it. After a while, he found he expected to turn and see the big Roman shadow or hear his harsh accented words. Though, Esca had to admit, Marcus was learning his language a lot faster than he was learning Latin. In all honesty, he had given up on that endeavor when it became clear that they were communicating better with Marcus speaking Briton.

Esca expected him not in a way that a master would expect a slave to be there for his every whim, but in a way that one would expect his shadow to be behind him when he stepped into the sun. Esca was still convinced he didn't need a slave, but Marcus had helped him in invaluable ways while his leg was healing. He had even contributed knowledge of Roman medicinal practices that had brought a shocked look to the surgeon's face and much faster relief to Esca.

Surprisingly to Esca, Tanca had bonded with the Roman in a way that reminded him of his own relationship with the boy: of brothers. If he thought about that too much it made his head hurt, because, after all, his brother could not be brothers with a Roman. Not even if he himself was becoming one.

The members of Esca's family were civil to Marcus, having long since gotten used to his presence. Also, they could not deny that Marcus was a good slave. He didn't even have qualms about doing women's work like scraping hides or cooking.

The rest of the tribe was used to him also, if not as tolerant. Though if Marcus cared about the looks the other tribesmen gave him, he gave no indication.

When the time came that Esca could ride again, he was radiant, and Marcus shared his good mood when they decided to go boar hunting one morning. Marcus grinned at him, looking like a person who has kept a long hidden surprise for someone and is finally getting to reveal it to them. He had seen Esca spend weeks casting longing looks at the horse pens, trying to convince Marcus that he was able to ride (if not even walk properly yet). And now Marcus happily helped him up onto a shaggy pony before jumping onto one himself, legs dangling far too long on the short animal.

When they came cantering lazily back that evening, a fine boar draped over the haunches of Esca's pony (Marcus's was already carrying enough), their fine mood was drowned immediately by the energy in the camp.

Esca jumped down (forgetting himself and falling to his knees), and headed off to find his father. Marcus decided to tend to the animals rather than intrude on the Chieftain's family meeting. He noticed that the Britons still milling about outside were giving him harsher glares than usual, and he felt a sense of dread pool in his gut.

ooooo

Esca came crashing into the warrior tent, where he was told his father would be. Indeed he was there, along with all the other warriors engaged in what Esca knew to be battle preparations. The tent was charged with anticipation, excitement, and a little trepidation. Some of the men were painting each other for battle, some sharpening weapons, and most had already started drinking. Esca knew his people were fierce fighters, and did not fear much, but he was experienced enough to see that something had them a bit worried. He found his father in a corner with two of his brothers and a few other close men.

"Father—is there to be a battle?"

The Chief looked at him, "Aye. A large troupe of Romans has already destroyed a southern village on its march here. We think they're here to revenge the other troupe—the one of your slave."

"When?"

"At dawn."

"And I—"

"You will not be joining us, Esca."

Esca glared back at him, stunned. He was one of his father's finest spears, proven time and again. His father must have understood.

"Lad, your leg is not fit for a fight. And I'll not lose ye—one of my best—because of something like that. It is not a dishonor."

Esca lowered his head, directing his glare at the ground. Of course he was right. He would never admit it to himself, but as of now, he could just hardly walk without stumbling. He'd only be a weak link.

"But…are the gods not in our favor?"

"I don't know. It'll be a tough one, even with their help, I'll say that."

Esca cursed under his breath. He needed to be there to help protect his family and friends. Even one more spear might tip the scales.

Again, his father read his mind. "No, son. Not you. Besides, you might have your own hands full with that slave of yours. While the men are gone from camp and he might find an easier escape. Be careful of him."

Esca hadn't even thought of something like that. There was no reason to. Marcus would never do that, he swore on his family's honor and he was Esca's friend. He said as much to his father. The chief just looked at him doubtfully.

Instead of arguing a moot point, Esca slipped something out of his tunic and handed it to his father. It was his precious dagger, their dagger. "For strength and honor. For luck."

His father took it silently, meeting his eyes. They needed no words, and he slipped it beneath his own tunic before turning to leave the tent and go participate in the before-battle ceremonies and feast.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning's dawn found Esca on the ledge of a high hilltop, sitting astride a huffing pony, and over looking a narrow valley where he could see every one of his tribe's warriors marching stealthily south. Strong, fearless men, but only about seventy at most, Esca felt an acute fear for them, watching as the mist swallowed every last one in turn.

They had been out of sight for several long minutes before Esca thought to turn back. He was painfully aware that his father's dagger was not on him, and its lost weight made him feel strangely heavier, instead of lighter. He thought maybe he should have asked the gods to bless it for his father. He didn't know how much help something like that would be, and cursed, knowing that the most help he could give would be to be down there marching with them.

oooo

The entire day Esca paced the camp, scowling and glaring at anyone who approached him. Marcus seemed to be the only soul brave enough to come close to him, and he would follow relentlessly and murmur encouraging words whenever Esca paused. He supplied food at the right times and started projects he knew Esca would probably join him in doing, so as to distract him a little.

By sundown Esca's shoulders burned and his leg was bucking every few steps. Marcus sat him down inside and got a fire going. Esca's eyes darted everywhere, unseeing, and Marcus knew his thoughts were just as frantic. Even he found himself wondering about the war party; they should hear back from them by nightfall. Esca's mother came into his tent later that night and they talked in quiet British that was far too quick for Marcus to catch.

Marcus stayed up and watched Esca sleep fitfully that night, tossing and turning violently for a few hours then waking and pacing more. Marcus had never even left for the slave's tent at the end of the night. Eventually, Esca could sleep no longer and got up several hours before dawn. Marcus watched him hustle around, gathering things into a sack, and Esca answered his questioning stare.

"I'm going after them. I have to know." He shoved out of the tent and Marcus followed. "You know we should have heard back by now."

Esca was already throwing his packs over a pony's back and scrambling up, and Marcus knew it wasn't his place to argue.

ooooo

They thundered off into the graying darkness, Marcus just hoping the ponies wouldn't trip in a hole and break a leg. But Esca knew every inch of these lands like a perfect hunter, and he guided his mount surely, even in his blinded fervor. They soon crested the same hilltop Esca had watched from the morning before, and were hot on the trail down the valley. Marcus's legs clamped desperately around the heaving belly of his pony as it galloped headily after Esca's, and he wondered how on earth Esca was managing this with his bad leg. Of course, Marcus thought, Esca's people were horse people, born into this like walking, and he himself just used to smooth cavalry mares with sturdy saddles.

Suddenly Esca slowed and halted, and Marcus wondered if he was finally lost in this mist. But soon enough Marcus could see what Esca must have already seen, and as he squinted through the fog he saw dark, motionless shapes littering the ground like fallen statues.

It was silent and cold and Marcus could smell the blood now, stronger than anything else—the ground was dark with it. Esca was off his horse and almost out of sight before Marcus even realized it. He made to jump down and follow, but, seeing the set of the Briton's shoulders, he stayed a little ways behind.

ooooo

Esca couldn't feel his arms or legs—they were frozen, and not from the chill air. There was a cold grip on his heart that made him wonder if breathing had ever been easy. He stumbled across the bloody ground, his legs trembling and stomach twisting more with each step. Each figure he tries not to see tears open his heart a little more, but he continues on until he stumbles to a halt and falls to his knees in front of the one figure that he desperately wished he wouldn't find.

Even mauled in this gory way, his father was unmistakable. Esca would recognize the dark painted wolf pelt and blue spear anywhere; they had rested against his family's home's walls since before he could remember. He tried to notice with pride that the spear was bloody halfway up the shaft and his sword stained to the hilt, but really all his mind would register was the still, twisted posture and expression that would never be right again.

He dropped his hands to the ground and retched, his eyes blurring and hot tears streaking down his face. When there was nothing left, he wavered and swayed, and would have fallen into his own mess, but just then strong arms were catching him and holding him upright. Rationally he knew it must be Marcus, whom he had forgotten completely, but for a delirious moment he wondered if a vengeful spirit had come to claim him as well. He would have welcomed it, too. After all, he was supposed to have been here, among his family and brethren.

But the arms were solid and real, and Esca leaned into their warmth, accepting comfort for his weakness for the first time since he had been a very small boy.

The moment was fleeting, and soon Marcus was hauling him up to his feet, saying that he shouldn't be here to see this any longer. Esca wanted to fight him, to say that this was his father and he deserved better than this; they all did. But all the energy was drained out of him, and he still leaned heavily into Marcus. He must have actually voiced his concerns, because Marcus was saying that he would bring people or come back himself to take care of things later if Esca would just come back to the camp now.

Suddenly Esca noticed something, and seemed to awaken with a jolt. _The dagger_. His dagger, his father's dagger, it was gone. He remembered his father strapping it into his belt the night before, and now it was nowhere to be seen. Esca felt a panic like the earth was threatening to disappear from under him again.

"The knife, Marcus! It's gone. The Romans must have taken it. Help me search the area—check everywhere." He stumbled out of the bigger man's hold and set off into the carnage.

Marcus sighed and went the other way, covering the other side of the area. He didn't need to ask what knife Esca meant; he had seen just what the small weapon meant to him. He made himself look closely, not wanting to miss anything for Esca, but his heart grew heavy and he knew he would grieve not only for the Britons he had come to know, but for his fellow countrymen who lay slain amongst the others. Men he knew Esca didn't even see except maybe as some small consolation.

It soon became clear to both of them that the dagger was gone, as was any remaining strength in Esca's bones. He sat on a stump along the edge, hunched and utterly defeated. Marcus came up and stood beside him. "I am sorry, my friend. Truly." And he was, Esca could tell by the tone in his voice and look in his eyes that managed to reach below everything else. Esca remembered the same sincerity in the Roman's eyes the first time he saw him.

ooooo

Marcus all but carried Esca back to the ponies, hoisting him atop his animal, and they slowly made their way back to the camp, relying mostly on the memory of the ponies, because Esca was lost too deep in thought and silence, and Marcus sure didn't know the way. But they made it back with the noonday sun, and were met by women and elders and a few men who took them as returning warriors from far off. They watched in silence and anticipation for their news, but Esca rode past everyone in silence, and Marcus followed—no one looking to him for news anyway.

News or no, it was clear to even the children what had happened, and women began to weep as Marcus turned to look once more before closing the tent flap after Esca.

Esca sunk onto a seat by the hearth. His mother was where he had left her, and she came to sit beside him. "Esca." He tried not to flinch. "Tell me son, what you saw."

"No. You don't want to hear it. It is the worst."

She breathed, and her breath hitched. He knew she was trying not to cry, and for that he was unreasonably grateful. He looked over at her, and took her hand in his.

"Your brothers?" she said.

"Everyone."

Marcus watched silently from the corner as Esca told her the story, sparing her the worst of the details. He tried to imagine himself having to tell his mother about the death of everyone she loved, and couldn't. In that moment he saw nothing but bravery in Esca, even if Esca himself might see weakness.

ooooo

That night there was another feast held in honor of the lost warriors. It was meager and pathetic: the people tried to celebrate the lives of the men, and tell of their bravery, but the wounds were too great for most, and the atmosphere weighed heavily with sadness.

Esca sat to the side, alone and mostly silent. And as the night progressed and drink flowed just as steadily, Marcus noticed that he was becoming more and more the target of nasty glances and spat remarks. The word 'Roman' cropped up in their conversations more than once, and, he recalled, even Esca's mother hadn't looked at him since she'd heard the news.

"I'm going to get it back."

Marcus glanced down at Esca, realizing that the man had directed the statement at him. Marcus hadn't even thought he knew he was there.

Esca met his gaze, his eyes intense. "The dagger. I have to. I will avenge him, and I won't let it be lost to Rome."

Marcus wondered at that: did Esca even know the enormity of what he was suggesting? Or was he simply too riddled with drink and grief? But Marcus had known the Briton for too long to misunderstand the fierce resolve behind his stare.

He had heard Esca talk of his father's dagger they way he talked about his eagle. He said it represented his family, their honor, the honor of his entire tribe, of which essentially he was royal blood. For the second time that day, Marcus put himself in Esca's place and realized—had it been his father and family—he would do exactly the same thing.

"Marcus. I would ask that you come with me. You know the language…"

Marcus thought of all that that would mean. He would be back in Roman territory, at least. On the one hand, there would probably be many good opportunities to escape back to his own life—everything he'd loved and had stolen from him. But the other would have him desert Esca in his time of need. Marcus had never been one to abandon the people he loved, and Esca had become a permanent part of his life. He also owed him his life and his honor, things that were just as important to him.

"And," Esca paused and looked down quickly, "I would be glad to have you with me." He met Marcus's eyes again. "Which is a sentiment you will no longer find here. People are remembering that you are Roman and that it was your people who just killed ours. If you stay, you'll most likely be killed, and I won't be here to save you this time."

Marcus knew how he felt about Esca, but he had to know how Esca considered him. "Aren't you worried? That I might escape?"

Esca looked at him. "You won't. You gave me your word, your honor. And I trust it. …And I trust you, Marcus."

For Marcus, of course, there was really no choice in the matter, and he knew tonight he would be preparing for one of the biggest and strangest adventures of his life.


	5. Chapter 5

Esca was planning like a man possessed. He did little else over the next days, and it was all Marcus could do to keep him eating. And when Marcus brought him food, Esca would interrupt him with constant questions about Roman cities and Roman customs and dress, and the land south of this. Marcus knew Esca listened to his answers only as much as was needed to learn the information he wanted, and his eyes were always hallow or haunted or so deep within his own mind that Marcus knew he saw nothing else. The days spent in drudging work to clean and take care of the dead hadn't helped the situation.

One time Marcus had made a comment that Esca was planning so well he would not need Marcus for anything. He had said it in a half-joking way in hopes of getting a glimpse into Esca's thoughts, but Esca brushed him off, listing all of the ways he would need Marcus, not least of which were to blend in and get them over the language barrier, as Esca knew little to no Latin.

As he looked at the small, wild man in front of him, Marcus didn't think it would be all that easy to "blend in", especially given the materials they had here to take with them: nothing in this camp looked even remotely Roman. But then Esca revealed that his Centurion's armor and uniform had been kept from the day of his enslavement, and he felt a little hope. He ran his hand over the familiar leather and brass, and wondered at how just looking at it made all his time here seem like mere days. His heart ached for his homeland then, and he felt an unreasonably strong desire to hear voices speaking Latin again—it had been so long. He couldn't stop the glee that filled him knowing soon he would have those things again, if only to a certain degree. He wondered how strong the temptation to flee from Esca would be when he was in the heart of Roman country once more, and if he would be able to resist it.

Marcus instructed Esca to pack clothes that were as plain and smooth as possible: no painted patterns or fur cloaks. They would have a delicate balance between their disguises: Marcus would have to be British north of the Wall or any people they met would kill him, and Esca would have to be—well, _not Brigantes_ —in Calleva or the Romans would kill him.

They calculated it would take about a month to get to the Wall, during which time they would be traveling as hunters, then traders, then Marcus as a returning Centurion, as they progressed south and eventually got to the Wall.

Marcus sighed, looking at the shaggy beasts that passed for horses here. They looked nothing like the sleek mares Roman soldiers would ride, and they would need to trade the animals out for others when they neared the Wall. For now though, even Marcus had to admit, these ponies were faster and more sure footed than any Roman horse, and would get them there safer and faster.

On the last day before their departure, Esca made a speech to his tribe. There was also a feast, and the people celebrated as if Esca was going to bring back the dead. In a way, Marcus supposed he was. As he listened to him tell of bringing back his father's dagger and restoring the honor of the dead; of ripping the treasure from the blood-stained Roman hands and bringing it back to it's rightful people, he saw how this small token embodied all of the Brigantes' spirit.

ooooo

That night Esca lay in the darkness of his family's tent and wondered at how long it would be before he ever saw it again. It seemed very empty, with just his mother and little sister huddled together on the other side. He was used to the sounds of half a dozen people sleeping around him, and for the past weeks the silence of the night had kept him awake. In the dead of night, with sleep evading him again, and thoughts of the trip failing to distract him, he curled in on himself and prayed he would not lose himself to tears.

He heard a distant shuffle and remembered that Marcus was sleeping in the tent too, as he had been for a few days now. Esca's immediate joy at his presence was soon smothered by his fear that Marcus would hear him in his moment of weakness. He knew Marcus wasn't really asleep, and the other man didn't bother pretending. He crawled over to lay beside Esca, and soothed him when he tensed, saying, "You are brave, Esca MacCunoval. I have seen it so many times. Don't let it stop you from taking my comfort this time."

The strong arms wrapped around him held no pity, only surety, and Esca believed him. Believed that he truly thought him brave. And in the secret of the night, for the second unbelievable time in his life, Esca took comfort in Roman arms, and eventually fell asleep to the sound of Marcus's breathing behind him.

They set out at dawn, Esca feeling more rested than he had in a while. Though his heart was racing and his horse quivered beneath him, feeling his tense energy. He was just waiting for Marcus to finish tying off saddlebags and climb up. No sooner were the Roman's feet off the ground than Esca kicked his horse into an immediate gallop, Marcus's charging after, with him ready or not.

They rode till dark, making a nearly straight way south, stopping only twice to water the horses. The hardy beasts had done nothing less than a heady canter non-stop all day and they were only now beginning to slow.

They camped along a small stream of icy water, and Esca caught a few ermine before the sun set completely. It had been a while since Marcus had slept entirely outside, and he now realized how much protection the Brigantes' meager shelters had provided. It was cold, like it always was this far north, and Marcus longed once again for the mild climate of his homeland.

But they had built a good fire and Esca came to lie beside him, and with his breath puffing against his neck, Marcus stopped shivering.

ooooo

For weeks they followed this daily routine, and the horses held up, though with each day they lost energy and tired quicker. Esca thought they would have to be traded soon, though they hardly ever came across anyone. But Esca still knew the land this far south a little, and knew that they should reach a village within the day. Like Esca's own tribe, they were mostly horse people, and he hoped they would have decent animals.

They agreed Marcus should wait about a mile away by their campsite while Esca took the horses into town to trade. It would be a good half-day lost, but it was necessary. Marcus busied himself by polishing his Centurion armor until near dusk, when he heard double hoof beats and Esca came riding up, leading another stout, shaggy horse behind. The animals had cost them more than just the other two, run down as they had been, and now they were a good deal less in their food stores. So the next morning Esca was forced to hunt down a young buck and butcher it, so they would have food for the last few days. It was another morning lost.

About a day's ride from the Wall, they stopped by another small town, this one almost half traders or foreigners. They had been careful not to tire the horses too much, as they needed an even trade for some Roman ex-cavalry mares.

That night Esca finally agreed to let Marcus trim his wild hair into a shorter, more Romanesque style. Marcus squinted at his handiwork when he had finished; it wasn't perfect, or resembling civilized really, but it was better. They donned their "Roman" clothes, Marcus putting on his armor, and prepared that morning to make the last stretch to the Wall. Marcus patted the sleek neck of his bay mare, admiring the angled, Roman leather saddle and bridle, the weight of his armor, familiar against his frame again. Esca looked different, which Marcus guessed was a good thing. With his hair cropped short and dignified drapes of cloth adorning him and falling over the back of his smooth white mare, he even looked somewhat passable as a Roman. Except for his scowl and the seething hatred that burned in his eyes for anything Roman.

Marcus told him not to look at anyone for too long with a look like that, or he was bound to get questions—questions that he wouldn't be able to answer. Marcus told him he would do the talking.


	6. Chapter 6

The guard at the post looked them over: Marcus standing tall in his re-shined Centurion's armor, trying to remember how to act authoritative; and Esca, scowling behind him with his short hair and semi less-barbaric clothes that covered his blue tattoos, and their two obviously Roman horses loaded with odd assortments of northern luggage. He raised an eyebrow, but kept a mindful tongue at the centurion's uniform. "Centurion?"

Marcus raised his chin slightly. "Yes. I'm Marcus Flavius Aquila, Centurion of the Ninth Cohort."

The man gaped at him. "Aquila? You're alive—sir?"

"We were…mostly beaten. I survived."

"Oh. Y-yes, I see. Welcome back, sir. I'm sure you will be well received." Marcus watched him eye Esca, but he didn't comment. Instead he opened the heavy wooden gate and let them pass.

They trotted through the small village buildings near the Wall, all eyes were trained on them. Marcus knew that, for the most part, the only folk to come back and forth through the Wall were traders selling their wares, and he wondered if maybe they should have tried for that disguise. At least until later, until he got further into Roman country.

He turned to Esca. "We'll need to find an inn to stay for the night. That shouldn't be a problem. What will, though, is finding the coin to pay for it."

Esca didn't seem to be fully listening. His hands were tense on the reins and his eyes darted everywhere, like a dog cornered in new surroundings.

Marcus sighed. He knew Esca would feel even more cornered in a Roman inn, but he also knew the sight of a Centurion camping in some low farmer's land near a perfectly usable town would be just as notable and suspicious. But that was an argument for later, he thought. They had a long ride still a head of them.

He had no idea where Esca's dagger might be in all this land south of the Wall, but he knew it would be up to him to ask around until they found out. If it had indeed been picked up and taken back, it would probably be considered a brave war prize, and held in high esteem in the victor's house. Or, it would be seen as a pretty, rare, exotic trinket and be sold for high bids in the markets. He thought maybe the best plan of action would be to first find information on the patrol that lead the attack, and then get the names of the men that were in it…. They'd have to find them all, or at least find enough information to narrow the search. Rome was much bigger and more populated than Esca's country, and Marcus wondered if Esca understood the enormity of this undertaking—not, he thought wryly, that it mattered now. Distantly, he figured they would head south towards Calleva, where one of his uncles on his father's side had a villa.

They were almost near the southern boarders of this first small town by early evening. There were still a few people shuffling about, heading out of town back to their homes, leading livestock or slaves piled with goods behind them. They passed a large wooden fenced area where a big greasy man was cracking a whip at a line of bent, shuffling men as they marched beyond the fence. It was a gladiator arena. Marcus didn't really give it much notice. But Esca stopped abruptly and jumped off his horse in one smooth motion, completely ignoring the buckling of his knee. He ran over to the arena and Marcus came up behind him.

The slave trader turned, giving Esca a funny look, which he quickly leveled at Marcus.

"And what can I do for you? See one you like? Though this lot's not much for household work, as you know. Been trainin' 'em for weeks now—some of them months. Good for practice or just some entertainment though. It's a bit late if you've come looking for slaves, though. But I'll be in town tomorrow with the lot of 'em."

"Eh, no. I don't need a slave."

The man gave an expectant look as if to say What then?

Esca looked between them both and barked at Marcus, "These men are Brigantes. They're slaves, aren't they?" His voice was venomous and Marcus felt a surge of panic. Esca had blown their cover and the trader quirked his eyebrows at him now, hearing his British words.

"Ah—this your slave? Guess that's why you don't need one. Can't have too many, though, as I always say."

"Sure," he said, hesitantly, once in each language to each of them. They had to leave—now. The trader wasn't the only one who had noticed Esca's language: a few of the men in line were looking at him now, with questioning and wondering stares.

Marcus grabbed Esca's elbow and began to edge him away. He said to the man: "Perhaps I will see you tomorrow then. We must be on our way. Come, Esca." The last in British. "We need to go. You can't fight this here."

Esca struggled and glared at Marcus. From on his horse he wheeled around to the chained men and yelled, shying his horse. "I will find a way to free you, brothers! I will come back."

The trader cracked his whip towards Esca. "Hey! Keep your distance, slave! Sir, kindly keep your boy under control. I can't have him yelling at my merchandise."

Marcus felt a surge of hot anger towards the man then, though of course Esca didn't need his protection, and had to steel himself against drawing his sword. The trader must have seen the look in Marcus's eye, and, remembering he'd just cracked a whip at a Centurion's personal slave, and hovered nervously.

In the end Marcus closed his eyes to stop his glare, apologized, and herded Esca away, the smaller man still meeting the eyes of the slaves as they watched them leave. When he had Esca at a safe distance, Marcus went back to the man. After some harsh words and threatening gestures he came back with a handful of coins. To Esca's questioning gaze he said, "Convinced him to buy a couple trinkets for some gold. It should get us a place for tonight."

"What trinkets?"

"Brass buttons."

"Buttons? Worthless." He looked at the handful of coins. "That was generous of him."

"It was an offer he couldn't refuse." Marcus couldn't quite suppress his satisfied smirk.

Esca sure wasn't going to scold Marcus's morals about his cheating deal with that man. Marcus saw a small answering smirk on Esca's face.

At a small wooden inn they stabled their horses and bought a room. Before sitting down to a meal downstairs, at Esca's prompting, Marcus questioned the innkeeper for helpful information. The man didn't know anything about any recent British war trophy, but promised to ask around anyhow.

The dining room was full of rather common people that evening, who were, for the mot part, completely ignoring them. Marcus had taken off his armor, left now in nicer Roman traveling clothes he'd bought with the extra gold, and Esca hadn't spoken to reveal his nationality, so there was no reason for drunk, happy men to give them notice. Even still, Esca hunched on his bench by their table and scanned the room as if the vary walls might attack. So Marcus finished eating quickly and suggested they both just turn in for the night.

The room was small, but Marcus was happy to see it had a fireplace, at least. No more cold nights in the bitter wind of the northern plains. There were also two small cots, one trunk, one candle, and a water basin. All in all, not a bad room for minimal coin in a small border town.

Stripping off his clothes, Marcus realized just how tired he was. Maybe it was the stress from all the traveling and pretending, but just then the little cot was the most welcome sight he'd ever seen. He tried not to think about the fact that between towns there would be long stretches of nothing and they'd have to camp again.

Esca paced the room like a caged animal, scowling. Marcus wondered what he was thinking. Still about the British gladiator slaves, or their as of now lead-less quest?

"Esca." He didn't know what he should say.

Esca turned to him. "That man—the innkeeper—he won't find anything will he?"

"I don't know."

"He won't even ask, I'll bet."

"He might. He did while we were there."

"No, he won't. I looked in his eyes. He hates me, and sees my hatred." Esca had to stop pacing because of his leg and sat down then, glaring at the bed as if it had offended him personally. "I don't like it here. Everyone makes me edgy."

"Well, you're not exactly radiating friendliness yourself, Esca. They can probably sense it." Marcus tried to calm him with the tones of his voice. But comforting had never been one of his strong suits. He'd never really had anyone to comfort—he was an only child, raised to work hard with no complaints, and then to command men in battle. But he got up and went to sit beside Esca on his bed and touched his shoulder. "You are tense. I can rub out knotted muscle well enough, if you want."

Esca shrugged and ran his hands through his hair. "And I hate my hair like this." It was sticking up in every direction and Marcus chuckled. "I like it."

"You would. I look _Roman_."

Marcus paused. "Esca, I like you no matter what your hair looks like. I liked you before you cut it, and don't like you any more now because you look Roman." He felt his face flush at the implication of his words and was glad Esca was mostly turned away from him. He started to rub out the smaller man's shoulder muscles to busy his hands, but Esca didn't give any sign that he'd noticed anything. He seemed to have slipped deep into thought, and long moments passed. Marcus was calmed and focused on his task by the time Esca spoke again.

He murmured, "We never found Tanca."

"What?"

He seemed to come to himself again and answered louder. "In the carnage, amongst all the bodies, I can't remember seeing Tanca's body." He dropped his head into his hands. "Maybe they dragged him off. Or beheaded him and we didn't recognize him. Dragged him behind a chariot… Or maybe he crawled away just to die later…"

A sob wracked him and Marcus stopped his hands. "Esca, stop. There's no sense doing that to yourself. I'm sure someone found him and you just didn't see." He doubted it himself, though.

"I wonder how they're all doing," Esca mumbled. "I wonder what they think of me now. Whether they think I've run away from it all. Maybe they think I'm already dead. That you killed me in the wilderness."

"No. They know you're stronger than that. Courage, Esca."

Esca looked at him, and something like gratitude shown back from his gaze, but he said, "What did that slave man say to you? The one with the line of men."

"He thought I wanted to buy one—a slave."

"And when I spoke?"

"He… presumed you were my slave."

"Ah." Esca didn't seem as bothered by this as Marcus would have thought. He guessed it made sense, if you thought about it.

"They were for fighting, weren't they?"

"Yes."

"They'll be killed?" It didn't sound like a question.

"Not necessarily," said Marcus, though he'd seen enough of those things to know the odds weren't great. Slaves with little to no training were usually no match for gladiators.

"Don't protect me with lies. I'm not naïve. We do the same kind of things. We did, to you," he spat and closed up. Marcus just sighed and continued to message. They listened to the fire crackle and pop quietly for a long while.

After a time Marcus felt Esca relax enough that he stopped. He convinced Esca to sleep then, and went to lie down in his own bed. Esca was still lying awake when sleep took him, and he dropped off with a feeling of guilt that he hadn't stayed awake long enough to make sure his friend found sleep as well.


	7. Chapter 7

The next days were spent similarly. They rode across the countryside, passing small farms and orchards as it grew warmer with the altitude. Every so often, when they saw people, Marcus would ask about news of the dagger. Most were tight-lipped about it, either genuinely unknowing, or just reluctant to share gossip secrets with a stranger. With those, Marcus was forced to inform them of his centurion position to get an accurate answer. He didn't like doing this; the less people knew of their identities, the better, and amongst these common folk, rumor spread like wild fire. News that centurion Aquila had returned from the grave and casually passed through town asking after a British dagger would be the story of the year and would likely beat them to Calleva.

That night around their campfire (Esca had grown sick of Roman inns) Marcus gave that idea more thought. Perhaps it was something that could work to their advantage if used right. It was too late to really keep their names a secret, he knew that, and they were far enough south that he would soon start to meet people he knew, and, more importantly, knew him. Centurion Aquila might be able to pull strings that Marcus couldn't. Indeed, people would probably trip over themselves to meet his needs, and the information he wanted would be handed to him on a golden scroll.

And it didn't even matter if they knew Esca's nationality. _Having him pretend to be my slave worked pretty well last time,_ Marcus thought. It would even give the returning war hero more credibility, to have not only evaded death, but also captured a British slave in the process. It was just a matter of coming to terms with himself that, for all he would be coming home a hero, he would be leaving it a betrayer and on the run.

For better or worse, his answer came soon enough, and they crested the hill overlooking the city of Calleva not a day or two later. Calleva was a large city, for the area. There was a very good chance the returning soldiers from the north had come here, at least for a while before heading further south. Legions often took vacation time in Calleva—the men enjoying its many entertainment venues before the barren boredom of the outer Wall posts.

The small farms surrounding the city soon grew to country houses then bloomed into strong buildings and rich villas intersected with a bustling network of roads and markets. The streets were crowded in a way that Marcus hadn't seen since he'd last been in Roman country, and in a way he knew Esca had probably never seen in his life. He gave the young Britain a glance when he felt him subconsciously pressing closer, and casting wary looks everywhere. For all his paranoia, however, no one was giving them a second's notice, and Marcus tried to calm Esca, fearing his behavior would attract some.

"Where do we even start? There are so many here."

"I don't know. I was thinking we would head to my uncle's villa, as a place to stay while we work though this city. It is rather large, it will take a while." He spoke British quietly, not so worried about hiding the language as hiding the conversational tone he was taking with his "slave".

Esca didn't seem to be jumping for joy at this suggestion, but at least he wasn't fighting it. He seemed tired, too tired of being constantly on guard, and too stubborn to stop. He had stopped arguing with Marcus about their lodging places, and Marcus dared to think that maybe Esca was beginning to trust him, even in this heart of enemy territory.

"And you trust this uncle? What measure of man is he?"

"I've never actually met him. But I would trust him; my father's brother. I've heard he is a retired soldier, an old man with his books."

"I see," he paused and looked down for a long moment. Marcus almost turned away, but the crease between Esca's brows kept him curious and anxious. Finally: "And… will you stay with your uncle, and leave me to my quest? It will be a good opportunity for you; you would not want to do this thing in front of your blood. You would disgrace your family."

Marcus looked at him, feeling a little shocked. He thought they'd been through this. He thought he'd made it clear to Esca that he would not abandon him; that he was here as a friend and that he would see this through. For him: for Esca. Because he didn't want to stay with an uncle he had never known. He didn't want to leave Esca to very possibly a horrible failure and fate. He didn't want to leave Esca…at all.

When that thought rang finally through his head, the impact of it almost sent him reeling from his horse. As it was, he was left silent for—he didn't know how long. It seemed so painfully clear now that he was shocked he had managed to not think about this fact every second of every past day.

His silence was misinterpreted, however, and when he looked back to Esca, the smaller man was closed and guarded, hurt and anger burning in his eyes.

"You seem to have not thought of that before, Marcus, considering that look on your face just now. Well. I wish you had known it sooner so we could have avoided this for you."

Esca had wheeled his horse around and taken off trotting into the markets. His desire to simply put space between them clear as Marcus knew he didn't know where he was going.

"Esca—"

Marcus heeled his horse's flanks to catch up. He blocked Esca's horse with his own, and Esca's frustration at being trapped this way lashed out in sarcasm and a level near yelling.

"I realize your status as my slave holds little power anymore, but maybe you would do me the _favor_ of keeping my secrets here, so that I might still have a chance at finding my father's dagger."

"Esca, I don't—"

"Give your uncle my regards when you arrive. Unless he killed Britons in his time, in which case, piss in his food—if you get the inkling; I can't make you. Not to worry, you won't see me again, and your reputation will mend itself in time, I'd imagine."

Esca was yelling now, and Marcus was getting desperate to quiet him: people were definitely starting to look now. As appalled as he was that Esca thought these things about him, shutting him up was priority. Marcus wasn't willing to shout over him to get his attention, and hitting him was equally out of the question: a fight breaking out in the middle of the town square would cause even more attention then they already had.

Grasping at straws, Marcus could see only one option, so he took it before he could think too hard. Grabbing Esca's shirtfront, he pulled him close and smashed his mouth over Esca's, silencing him mid-word. Esca stilled and Marcus released him quickly. The shock of it kept Esca silent after that, long enough for Marcus to snatch the reins out of his hands and pull them both out of traffic and into the little secluded privacy behind a small barn.

It wasn't quit so unorthodox for a man to be angry with a slave over something out in public—though it was a little stranger for the slave to argue back. It wasn't even unusual for a man to kiss a slave, though to do so in public and after such an angry display was something to take notice of, for sure. Marcus knew he hadn't handled that very well.

Esca stared at him, still stunned, watching Marcus's face turn pink.

"Marcus, what—why—"

"I had to stop you from making a scene!"

"I'm making a scene? You just—! That wouldn't make a scene?"

"Yes, you! Your yelling was worse than that."

"So you _kissed_ me? That was your bright idea, after saying you're about to leave me?"

"I never said that, Esca! You did. I'm not leaving you. I've told you that!" Marcus had to remind himself not to start yelling again himself. "Come on. We're _both_ going to my uncle's house, and then I'll help you find that knife of yours if we have to search every wrinkle of every toga in the city."

Esca seemed even more taken aback than after Marcus had kissed him, and Marcus was glad his anger had calmed his flush, and he composed himself again. Esca just nodded, and made to follow Marcus as he spun his horse and jogged off down the road, desperate to get away from their audience of before.

ooooo

Uncle Aquila's villa was a large warm looking place that sprawled out lazily across many acres. Marcus was dimly surprised at the evident wealth it displayed; his own family had never had any excess of money that he knew of. The total of Aquila's property was bigger than the entire area of Esca's village, and Esca was taking in the view with his second stunned silence of the day; not that he'd talked much at all the rest of the day since their little event in the market.

They made their way into the courtyard and dismounted as a stable boy came to take their horses. He looked at them for a while before remembering himself and bowing, telling them he'd alert someone of their arrival.

Not a minute later, an older Greek man came bustling out, bowing to them. "Welcome, masters. What can the house of Aquila do for you today?"

Marcus stepped forward. "Hello. I'm a nephew of Aquila's. My name is Marcus Flavius. We—I—apologize for such little notice, but I was passing through and hoped I might visit for a while, as I have business in Calleva for some days." He looked back at Esca, who hadn't understood anything, of course. "This is Esca Mac Cunoval. My slave."

"Of course, master Marcus Flavius. I am Stephanos, head slave to master Aquila. I will inform him of your arrival—I'm sure he will be pleased to meet a nephew. Please follow me."

He led them to a modest sitting room where he left them on a couch, and went scuffling out another door.

Marcus translated to Esca while shrugging out of his packs. After a time, a tall, white-haired man with a strong posture came through the doorway, an old wolfhound stalking at his heels. He stopped to take them in for a silent moment before stepping up and offering his hand to Marcus. They gripped arms and Aquila broke into a smile.

"So. Marcus, is it? Yes. You look just like your father. How is the old boy?"

"He's well, thank you." Marcus was barely taller than Aquila and he was surprised at how much this old man still radiated command.

"What brings you to Calleva? I thought I had heard you were in command somewhere."

"Ah, yes. I made Centurion and we've been up north." He didn't know how much he was willing to tell his uncle just yet, so he dodged the question. "This is Esca. My slave."

"Esca. A Brigantes, no doubt. Do you speak Latin, my boy?"

"No, he doesn't."

"Well, not to worry. If you trust him, he is welcome to stay with the others in the servants' quarters. If not, it's the stables for him, I'm afraid. I'm rather fond of my staff here."

"Of course, I understand. I do trust him, though. He will behave. And thank you, uncle. I know this is an imposition."

"Not to worry, son. I have many rooms and not nearly enough people to fill them. I imagine you'll liven things up here for a while. But not now," he added, seeing Marcus' look. "Stories are better left for after a hot meal."


	8. Chapter 8

Eating in Aquila's house was like being home again. Marcus delighted in the familiar foods, recipes from his childhood only slightly atypical due to the northern spices used here and there as replacements for southern rarities. The feast was no small meal, and Marcus knew his uncle had gone to great lengths for him, for which he was grateful. It was wonderful to think that, even after this warm meal there would be an equally warm bed instead of damp wet ground by a pitiful fire.

Marcus had decided from the start that just because his uncle believed Esca to be his slave wouldn't stop him from convincing Aquila to let the Briton eat this food too. And so he did, stubbornly ignoring his slight blush at what it must imply. Esca must be some special companion indeed to have captured his interest so completely as to warrant equal treatment. His guise as a simple body slave was now shot.

Aquila raised an eyebrow, but didn't protest, and Esca was allowed to sit in the corner on a stool with a fair share of the food.

Before they had come to dinner, Marcus and Esca had agreed that Aquila should not know of their actual plans, and so Marcus was ready when his uncle asked the inevitable that night over the table.

"We are on leave for a while and I was passing through on my way south. I've heard much about Calleva and was hoping to find it lives up to expectations. I imagine I'll be scouring this town to learn all its secrets while I'm here."

"There is a lot to see," Aquila allowed, moving the conversation on. "Tell me, my boy, what of the battles in the north? Even in Calleva we have heard rumors. I thought there was a trope sent up recently to avenge a loss. Bad one, from what I've heard."

Marcus remembered all too well the bad loss. It was his men that had been lost. He himself had watched the last hopeful survivors being ripped apart by wolves in the enemy's camp.

The force of the memory shocked him. It was clear as day and sharp as if it had happened yesterday, but in the nearly a year since he had been Esca's slave, he had hardly thought of it at all, and less so as the time went by.

"As you say. I don't know what happened to the first garrison. I've surely heard less than you even. There were fewer tongues to carry rumor for me than there are here. But I led the second. It was brutal. Nearly none survived, on either side." He looked at Esca, remembering the man's father and brothers. Esca was listening closely, studying his face, but Marcus knew he couldn't understand a word of what was said. He didn't want to have to answer later when Esca would ask for a translation. He knew he wouldn't appreciate the lie, even though it was necessary.

Aquila nodded solemnly. "The Brigantes are a hard enemy. But you must be commended for your bravery, Marcus. And surely you will be, here. There will be many people lining up to meet you."

"Maybe. I don't look forward to it. It would be nice to just relax."

"If you want to relax, running around town isn't the way to do it, boy." Aquila's eyes glinted with a knowing spark that Marcus was a little wary of. Perhaps his uncle could already see through the holes in his story. Thankfully, he let the matter drop, for now.

"Though I suppose your relaxation should start tonight, and I'm not helping it with my pestering questions. Stephanous will show your slave to the slave's quarters." Again, the spark. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer he sleep in your room? I can easily arrange a cot."

Marcus was blushing again as he stumbled over his words. "Yes, well, that might be good. Our things are already there…I…he's…he doesn't know your servants, so it might be good—better—that way. Yes. Don't want to cause them trouble. Thanks."

His uncle waited with a smirk for him to finish, then scooted back from the table calling, "Stephanous, you heard him." The Greek man bustled in from where he had been waiting outside the doorway, and led them back to their room, followed shortly by a younger boy (most likely the stable boy) with a cot that was placed by the door.

Now left to themselves in the room, Marcus filled Esca in on the dinner conversations, assuring him that nothing was revealed about their plans. He left out as much as he could about the battle topic, though from his glower Marcus thought Esca had gotten enough of the gist.

Esca looked from the cot to the ample bed against the far wall. "So this is where the slave sleeps?" his words bit as he nodded to the cot.

"Actually," he retorted, "the slaves sleep in the kitchens. Or the stables. But I vouched for you." He was too tired to like the tone in Esca's voice, and he knew it was making him snippy too. "Or should I be the one to sleep there, _master_?" He glared back at Esca, daring him to order it: they both knew it was impossible and would ruin any remaining shred of their ruse.

Esca's face softened at his look. "No. I will. I'm sorry, Marcus. I should appreciate all that you've done for me. Even if you're still my slave."

Marcus wasn't expecting his change in mood, but he was grateful. He didn't like when they fought, and even less now that his feelings towards the young Briton were stampeding around his head like confused horses. His mind flashed on the kiss from earlier. Did it mean anything to Esca? Did it mean anything to him? He wondered what his uncle thought of them. He wondered what he himself thought of them.

"Where do we start tomorrow?" Esca's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Um, well, I think we should find the places where soldiers would be. We need to find the solders that fought there. One of them would have it, if anyone."

Esca nodded and went to lie on the cot by the door. There were no blankets or furs with it, and it was far from the fire, but Marcus knew they couldn't risk even dragging it closer for warmth, lest someone pass by and see. But after several long minutes of watching Esca shiver slightly as he fell asleep, Marcus found he didn't care, and, grabbing a thick fur from his own bed, draped it over him.

ooooo

The next morning Marcus awoke to an empty room. Esca's cot was empty and the fur was folded at the foot of his bed. He wasn't quite sure what time it was, and so wasn't sure whether he had slept late or Esca had risen early, but Esca had made sure they weren't found out by the fur. Marcus wished vaguely that he'd seen what Esca had thought of it.

He couldn't imagine where Esca might be; he couldn't have gone too many places, or people would question why Marcus let his slave wander where he wasn't supposed to be.

Marcus found him in the stables, getting a little escape under the guise of tending to the horses. It was a lame guise, as Marcus found him sitting on a wall, idly playing with a leather strap, and doing nothing for the horses. But Marcus smiled when he walked up, offering pastries from the kitchen for breakfast.

"How long have you been up?" he asked Esca.

"A few hours."

Esca finished playing with the leather. "Marcus. Thank you. For the fur last night."

"Of course."

"Here," he handed Marcus the leather strap, "this is for you."

Marcus took it with a little confusion. Looking at it, he saw that it wasn't just a strap, but many small straps braided intricately into a bracelet. Esca had somehow managed to make the straps look like a complicated and swirling pattern, as graceful as if it had been drawn with paint. Marcus ran his thumb over the texture, and swallowed around a lump in his throat, realizing he'd forgotten how to speak.

"E-Esca. This is… thank you."

Esca smiled. "Would you like to wear it?" He got up without waiting for an answer and came to stand in front of him, taking it and working it around Marcus' wrist. His head bent over his work, Marcus was left to try and compose himself with Esca so close as to physically warm him.

"There." Esca finished and looked up, then just as quickly looked back to the pastries in Marcus' hand. "Do these mean we don't have to have a big meal with him this morning?"

"No. We're free to go. I've told him we're taking an early start."

They ate quickly and tacked the horses, making their way into town.

As it turned out, "places where soldiers would be" weren't as obvious as they might have hoped. Obvious would be barracks or patrol stations, but their band of soldiers would be in any place but those places, as they were not on duty. That left pretty much any place someone would go to find entertainment in their free time. Esca had the idea that their thief might be in a place of healing if he'd been injured, but they quickly ruled that out: he would either be better or dead by now if he'd been injured.

They checked bars and brothels, where they did find a few soldiers among the men there, but soon realized the men who frequented places like that weren't the kind of men to see the value in a war prize. They were dragging by the afternoon, having traversed the majority of the lower town, and were leading their horses up to a trough in yet another town square when Esca suddenly froze.

He was looking across the way at a wealthy looking man with a couple of slaves carrying sacks and other things for him as they shuffled behind. The man strode purposefully up to a vendor a little ways off, while the slaves waited where they were. Which turned out to be a very good thing as Esca took off like lightning towards the slaves. Marcus was just behind him with the horses, and was too suddenly wary and angry to have taken in the situation properly. He was just about to yell at Esca for highlighting them with yet another public display of dramatics when Esca cut him off.

" _Tanca_."

"What?" Marcus faltered, looking between Esca and the smallest of the slaves, who was now looking back at Esca like he was dreaming. Then he realized that it was indeed Esca's youngest brother, here in Calleva and very much alive. "Tanca?"

"Esca. Is it you?" the boy spoke to Esca.

Before Marcus had sorted his thoughts Esca and his brother had been embracing and chattering for whole minutes before he even realized it was British.

Marcus' heart swelled for the two, but he now grasped more of the situation than Esca, and stiffened when the wealthy man began heading back, obviously having seen the scene with his slaves.

He strode up with a scowl, throwing Esca and Tanca apart with a hard shove, and another for Tanca when they were parted, which landed the boy on the ground. "What do you think you're doing, boy?" he shouted at Tanca, but had the tact not to yell at another man's slave in his presence.

Esca made to lunge after the man with an animalistic snarl the likes of which Marcus had never seen on him before, but Marcus grabbed him bodily and held him back.

The man was clearly mad at Esca also, but merely stepped out of his range with a sneer in favor of Marcus, whom he looked at with more of a calculating eye. Having taken in his higher-than-normal status clothes, he was clearly trying to figure out whether Marcus was someone equal or higher than himself or whether he could actually scold him for his slave's behavior.

Normally, such issues were no more sever than a rogue dog off leash, and people were civil with each other in this part of town. Luckily, this was how this man chose to act. He smiled at Marcus and spoke as if Esca were nothing more than a misbehaving child, something one regarded with polite irritation.

"The boy hasn't harmed your slave, has he? No harm no foul, as I like to say. He'll be beaten accordingly, I assure you." He extended his arm in greeting. "Alethius Flaccus Carius. I don't believe we've met."

Marcus grasped his arm. "Marcus Flavius Aquila. We haven't." He tried to keep the venom in his voice to a minimum.

"No? I believe I've heard of Aquila. There is an Aquila villa on the west side, is there not?"

"Yes, but it is not mine. It is my uncle's. I'm visiting Calleva after battles in the north." At Carius' look he added, "Centurion Aquila."

Carius' face lit up. "Centurion? Where did you fight in the north?"

"Caledonia." He didn't want to tell this stranger exactly what legion he led, and let on to which battle he fought.

"Why, my son Gavrus fought there as well! Second Commander Carius, sent to avenge the loss of the legion of the ninth. Or so I've been told. You know how these things are kept quiet except in rank; never know who's spying for whom. But my boy's told me enough…"

But Marcus was no longer listening. This was it. This was their best lead yet. Direct access to someone who fought in that battle! Marcus was in the middle of trying to think of a way in when he caught the tail end of Carius' speech: "…so you simply must come over to dine with us sometime. I'll make a feast of it, you'll see, biggest and best in town. Gavrus will come, of course."

 _Yes. Prefect._ That was their ticket.


	9. Chapter 9

Uncle Aquila didn't seem at all surprised when Marcus told him about their dinner party with Carius. He said he'd known Marcus would cause a stir in Calleva. The invitations had come the day before, the messenger boy bowing and stumbling over his words as he tried to hide his admiration of Marcus. Esca, who hadn't understood his words, had scowled unhappily at his display the entire time, watching him watch Marcus.

Esca had been like a crazed wolf since they had seen Tanca in the street that day. He paced and raged and fought Marcus when he tried to talk him down from looking for the boy anymore. Esca was becoming more and more irritable as the days passed, while he tried to remember that Marcus was not his enemy.

The afternoon of the party, Marcus borrowed clean white robes from his uncle to fashion his toga, and dressed Esca in fine slave clothes. It would be suitable for Esca to come to this dinner: most of the higher class citizens had their slaves accompany them everywhere, like favored pets, even if they knew they would be well cared for in the hands of their hosts' slaves. Besides, he hadn't forgotten the main reason for their attendance, and hoped the evening would present some clues for their search for the dagger.

While they rode to Carius' villa, Marcus tried to explain to Esca all the finer points of Roman tradition in regards to this kind of event. Some things that were obvious and instinctive Marcus had trouble explaining and thus Esca had trouble understanding. In the end, Esca was told to simply "follow my lead."

It was dusk when they arrived, handing their horses off to be put in the stables. The villa was glowing with light that one could see from the streets—which was obviously the intent—and the happy sounds of music and conversation floated about the house. Marcus started up the steps—Esca half a pace behind him, head down, the picture of a perfect slave—and immediately Carius came up to greet him, like the honored guest he was.

He clapped him on the shoulder and swept his other arm out to encompass the entirety of the room and all it's party favors.

"Welcome, Marcus! You're just in time for the party to have started without you! But never mind. Come, come, have some wine. Let me introduce you to…" and he proceeded to drag Marcus around to every guest in the villa. Esca had been told to stand in the corner, and Marcus was glad of it now: he shuddered to think what the young Brit would have done if he had been dragged through all that.

Finally, just as Marcus's feet and patience were starting to give out on him, food was called and the guests retired to the dining room. There were several couches lining the walls and Carius, who was sprawled on one, motioned for Marcus to take the one beside him. Gavrus was already drunk on his couch, baying loudly at his own jokes.

There was a door to the kitchens through which slaves were filtering, bringing trays of food and wine. Esca hovered behind Marcus's couch, not required to help with the food, but not really having anything else to do either. Marcus could see him fidgeting, so to give him something to do he had him pour him some wine. Scowling, Esca made to do it, but mid-pour he jerked and froze, looking up. He managed to spill wine all over Marcus in the process and not even notice, but Marcus cut off his response when he saw what Esca was looking at.

Tanca was one of the slaves walking sullenly about with platters of food, head down, seeming not to see what was going on around him, or not daring to look. He hadn't seemed to have noticed Esca, and obviously didn't remember or recognize Marcus, coiffed as he was.

Panicked, Marcus looked back at Esca just in time to grab his wrist and keep him there—keep him from doing anything rash. He met his eyes with a look that said: not now! and added what he hoped was a sympathetic look, not sure whether Esca even saw it.

They both looked up at a bark from Gavrus across the room. He was looking at them with beady eyes—at Marcus's hand still on Esca's wrist. He said, "Aquila! That's your new prize slave boy, isn't it? He is a pretty thing. Do you take him to bed?" he sloshed his drink in laughter. "I have a favorite of my own too! I'll show you—you'll like this one, reminds me of yours."

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Marcus realized he knew what was going to happen before it did. Gavrus cackled and grabbed Tanca by the arm as the boy stopped to drop off some food, and pulled him down unceremoniously down onto his couch. Tanca gave a small cry as he was off balanced, but then glared daggers that would have made Esca proud. That is, if Esca hadn't been quivering with rage, straining at the end of Marcus's arm. Marcus muttered in British so only Esca would hear: "Esca. Just relax, he's fine."

Esca clenched his jaw so hard Marcus thought he heard a crack, but managed to back a step. "What is he doing? Why did he do that? Tanca didn't do anything wrong."

"No he didn't. Gavrus is just drunk."

It was at this point that Carius noticed the conversation. "He is like yours, isn't he, Marcus? Even looks the same. Say, that is the slave yours was…interested in in the market the other day, isn't it?"

"Uh…yes. I assure you it won't be a problem. Esca is just…very passionate."

Carius laughed. "Yes I can see that! You rather like him don't you? Well, by all means—take him onto your couch! Gavrus does, with that one." He jerked his thumb in the direction of his son, where the man had already wrestled a struggling Tanca down to lay beside him.

Marcus didn't like where this was going, and, as much as he knew he'd love to have Esca beside him on a couch, the thought of doing it here, with these people, made him feel sick.

He smiled tightly and declined the offer. Carius frowned thoughtfully, and snapped at Gavrus to release Tanca, seeming to take Marcus's example as protocol. Obviously, since his esteemed guest didn't want to partake in such things, Carius declared they would not either, and Gavrus was embarrassing him anyways. Gavrus huffed and glared at his father, but was quickly mollified by a few seasoned slaves who stepped in to distract him with more wine. Tanca scrambled away and Marcus hurriedly met Esca's eyes, telling him quietly to go wait with Tanca and the other slaves in the kitchens.

The tension left with Esca, and Marcus suffered the conversations, all the while stealing glances back towards the kitchens where he could see Esca talking to his brother quickly and eagerly, no doubt telling him everything.

"…and you know, Gavrus, Marcus fought up north, with the Ninth. Tell him about your legion's battle with the…oh, what were they—?" said Carius, drawing Marcus back to the present.

"Brigantes," said Gavrus. "The savages. Might as well've fought dogs—wild, crazy dogs. It was easy. Slaughtered 'em 'o course. No sign of the Ninth either." He sneered at Marcus. "Which is surprising, isn't it Aquila? A legion like yours, getting annihilated like that by a few wild men."

Marcus glared but didn't say anything. He didn't like wasting his time on drunkards with loose jaws.

"How come you survived? And left your troops, did you?"

"Of course not. They were all dead."

Carius intervened. "I'm sure you fought nobly. Gavrus, you will be civil to our guests."

But it seemed Gavrus wasn't done gloating. "Wait, Aquila. There's something I want to show you, something I won from that battle. Though I'm sure you have war prizes just as exquisite." He clapped his hands and sent a slave off for something. Carius didn't hear his son's jibe over his equal eagerness to show Marcus whatever this prize was.

For the second time that evening, Marcus had the déjà vu sense that he knew what was about to happen, and heard himself saying "Esca, _look_ ," in British before he could stop himself. Esca was at his side just as Gavrus took the wrapped object from the slave and opened it for them to behold.

Unbelievably, Esca's family dagger winked up at them, polished and cleaned as lovingly as Esca would have done. For whole minutes time stood still while they stared, and like in a dream, Marcus had the sudden horror that Esca—or even he—would simply reach out and take it. Surprisingly, it was Esca this time that took control, and Marcus drew from his calmness. Gavrus was watching Esca closely, knowing he might recognize it, but in his own defiant way, Esca didn't give away anything, his features a stoic mask.

Marcus marveled at his friend's control, but Esca said: "Tanca told me it was here."

Gavrus grinned then, thinking he'd gotten something. "Yeah, filthy Brit. Recognize it, maybe? What did you say, hmm?"

Esca picked up a wicked looking carving knife and met his eyes. "Pork?" he said innocently, gesturing to the platter. But Marcus knew his eyes must be filled with dark promises, and from the look on Gavrus's face, he knew he was right.

"Excuse us, gentlemen, I just need a word with my slave." Marcus turned to Esca under the guise of reprimanding him.

"What did Tanca tell you? Does he know where it's kept?"

"Yes."

"Good. I have a plan then. We'll come back tonight and he can steal it out for us when they're asleep—and they'll be dead asleep after all this—and meet us outside with it. For now, just stay calm and invisible until this is all over."

"Tanca is coming with us."

"Of course he is."

"But we only have two horses."

"We'll think of something. It'll be slower, but we can do it."

"It'll be slower than them when they find out."

"Well… we'll have a good head start."

"Why don't you speak words we can all understand?" Gavrus's annoyed voice cut in, now realizing from his tone of voice that Marcus couldn't be scolding Esca.

"Apologies," Marcus said.

"How do you know their language, anyway?"

"Do you not communicate with your slaves?"

Gavrus scoffed. "Well they'd better learn my language, seeing as they're _my_ slaves."

"Quite right, isn't it?" said Carius. "Can't have us braying like asses just so they'll pull the cart faster!" he chortled, his face already ruddy from the wine.

Marcus rolled his eyes. "No, indeed. Wouldn't want to seem like asses."

When the food ran out and most of the guests had left, Carius finally called the night an end. He was staggering drunk and Gavrus had passed out moments before, snoring face down in his couch. Carius apologized profusely for the lack of facilities to carry them partying through the night, but wished them back sooner rather than later, and finally let them go with a promise of return from Marcus.

As they walked out into the night, finding their horses, they rode a safe distance away from the villa's light, and found a secluded spot in the nearby groves to wait out the next few hours.


	10. Chapter 10

They sat on a hill where they could see the lights in the house windows, and waited until all the lights were gone. And then waited a little more, just for good measure. Esca spent the hours pacing, and now was stumbling tiredly with a noticeable limp.

Esca had had a chance to explain the plan to Tanca, and now the boy was waiting for them exactly as expected. He sat, silent as a shadow, and only Esca's indication told Marcus he was there at all. Marcus found himself wondering again at the stealth of these people. They are hunters first and foremost, after all, like wolves that strike quickly and deadly; not blundering soldiers with brute force, like himself and his people.

Esca's shadow joined Tanca's, and they conspired in British for a few moments while Marcus only half listened, keeping watch.

From what he caught of the conversation, Esca was telling Tanca that he himself was to be the one to go get the dagger. It was a matter of pride, and, if he got caught, he would be glad to "slit those fat blubbering Roman throats". Meanwhile, Tanca and Marcus should meet him around the back. Tanca had tried to convince Esca he should go with him and help, and Marcus had _demanded_ from Esca that _he_ go with him and help, but Esca would have none of it.

Armed with the whereabouts of the dagger, Esca shimmied up the wall, through a window and out of sight. Marcus's gaze followed after him, anger and worry warring in him. Tanca watched him watch Esca with a strange look in his eye.

"Are you still my brother's slave?"

Marcus looked back at him, distracted. "Yeah."

Tanca regarded him thoughtfully for a moment longer. "You don't act like it."

Esca crept along the hallway, eyes darting to every shadow and play of light. The walls were lined with exotic looking things—rich, foreign, proud, stolen. The last in the long line of objects was his knife, resting on a small pillow atop a painted pedestal. The paintings were new—Esca could tell because the subject was a new one, and Esca shook with anger as he looked at it. It was of figures clashing in battle, and it was very clear which of the figures were Roman and which were British: the Romans still had heads on and guts inside.

Esca grabbed the dagger and fought the urge to shove the pedestal out a window.

Marcus and Tanca had already brought the horses up to the back of the house and were waiting for him when he came out. Tanca slid further back on Esca's horse so that his brother could hop up behind it's withers; the two of them being lighter than Marcus.

Marcus met Esca's gaze. "Did you get it?"

Esca grinned manically and flipped it between his fingers quickly before putting it away and kicking his horse on. Marcus followed after, thinking of how little he'd seen Esca smile lately and shocked himself realizing what he'd do to see more.

At a canter or even fast trot, depending on how the horses last, it would take them at least a whole day to get back to the Wall, and that was without stopping for anything. He looked up, judging the time, and didn't want to think how much harder it would be in the daylight. He thought they must have at least four more hours of darkness, but that would still put them with almost a whole day tomorrow.

Two hours later, Marcus realized he'd been expecting way too much from their horses: they were already huffing at a trot, and walking as much as their riders allowed. As much as it frustrated them, there really was no helping it, unless they wanted to abandon the animals. So they trudged into the dawn, and watched over their shoulders as the sun rose and the town came alive.

By midmorning they hadn't stopped or been stopped by anyone. They found that riding intently and quietly, and not interacting with anyone made them seem like they were on a mission and not to be interrupted, and for the most part, people left them alone. No one had recognized them yet, and Marcus was counting their luck. He knew it wouldn't last too long; it was still very early in the morning and their particular pursuers would probably have slept in, and be just nearly awakening, _with horrible hangovers_ , Marcus hoped.

They'd wake up and, probably the first thing to notice would be Tanca's absence, which the other slaves would find first. Depending on their loyalty, it might not be very long at all before one of them told their masters about it. Then, again it would most likely be a slave that first found the empty pedestal where the dagger should have been. Connecting the two, Gavrus would think Tanca had run off with it, but if he were smart at all he would, unfortunately, connect it to Esca and Marcus as well. After all, Tanca had been there for who knows how long and he hadn't taken it, but the night that his brother shows up, and they have an obvious reunion, it gets stolen. Yes, they will be on their tails before noon, Marcus thought grimly.

An hour later, he knew he'd been right. They had made it to the outskirts of Calleva, and their horses were drooping, but a commotion could be heard from the hills behind them. As they stopped to look back, they had a view of the town and could barely (but clearly) make out a loud band of men on galloping horses came barreling through the crowd, which parted quickly in confusion.

Esca cursed, and wheeled his horse around, digging in his heels and leaning in as the animal gave a leap forward. Marcus followed, and they raced as far as their adrenaline fueled mounts would take them at that pace, but they'd been riding non-stop for near seven hours, and the horses just couldn't do it.

Esca was kicking his animal in frustration, to no avail, when Marcus stopped him.

"It's no use, Esca. You'll beat it to death. We have to try something else."

"What else, Marcus?" Esca rounded on him in anger. "Do you suggest we stand and fight?"

"Of course not. We're too outnumbered." He thought quickly, running a hand through his hair and trying not to panic. "Come on, follow me. They still have to make it through the whole town and they haven't spotted us. We'll hide."

He made their way to a small inn, trying to be as nonchalant and normal looking as possible. They tied the horses at the front and hustled inside as fast as they could without bursting through the front doors in desperation.

The inn was just a small dining room with a few rooms for guests' sleeping quarters upstairs. Marcus told Esca and Tanca to sit and wait for him as he went to get a room, and to not let anyone get a good look at them in case they were asked after.

Unfortunately, Marcus realized too late that they no longer had any money. The tired looking man at the counter looked unimpressed and made it clear they'd be given no breaks. Marcus cursed mentally; he could easily pull the Centurion card and get them rooms, but of course he didn't want to do that.

The innkeeper finally agreed to give them a room and hot meals in exchange for one of the horses. Marcus knew they were being horribly cheated, and, more so, it was a bad move. There'd be no way to outrun them without both horses: one could never carry all three of them. But this hideaway was also necessary. It was the lesser of two evils, and they had no choice. He told the man they'd take their meals up to the room, not wanting to chance being caught eating in the dining hall if Gavrus showed up looking for them.

They trudged up the stairs, carrying all their bags and gear (and all the luggage from Marcus's horse, which would be staying), and collapsed into the room. They were all more tired than they realized, having finally slowed down enough to feel it, and no on even complained when the room only had one bed.

They sat by the fire Marcus made and ate their meals. The food was good, though it could have been raw rat and they probably would have eaten it, they were so drained.

Within the hour, Tanca was asleep on the floor, curled in their bags and the heat from the fireplace. Marcus went out while Esca finished eating and crept to the top of the stair landing. He'd thought he'd heard something, and, to his dismay, he'd been right. Hidden from behind the stair wall, he watched as Gavrus and his men clambered into the inn, demanding information. As they went up to the counter and the innkeeper, Marcus knew they were doomed; this wasn't that big of a city and surely they would be remembered. He was just about to turn back, gather up Esca and Tanca, and slip out a window or something, when something caught his attention.

From his angle he couldn't see the counter, but the voice of the innkeeper was different. He risked a glance further and saw that it wasn't the innkeeper at all. It was a younger man, a boy really, attending the counter now. It must be the innkeeper's son, and the boy was stammering confusedly at their questions, assuring them he hadn't seen anyone they were looking for come in that he'd seen. Marcus thanked the gods, and couldn't help the grin that split his face as he watched Gavrus and his men leave.

As he walked back to their room, Marcus felt happy; stupidly happy, and he distantly realized it was probably because he was so tired. He shouldn't be this happy; they weren't out of the clear. Gavrus would be searching the town and waiting for them. But for once, it seemed they had been thrown a scrap of luck, and it meant they could rest in relative peace.

He came in to find both brothers asleep, Esca on the bed. He closed the door and walked in as quietly as he could. After looking around in vain for a blanket, or even a bag to sleep on as a pillow, (Tanca had claimed them all), he curled up on the floor beside the bed, shivering and hoping sleep would find him quickly. It didn't. But soon he heard a shuffle and Esca's hand on his shoulder.

"What are you doing? Come up." Esca whispered, beckoning him. "It's cold on that floor, and you're not a child."

Marcus felt like he should argue, but felt more strongly that he just really, really didn't want to. Esca made room for him in the bed, which was going to be a tight fit, but after a few moments of turning and shuffling, they slotted together and there was enough room and warmth to send them off within minutes. The last thing Marcus remembered was the smell of Esca's hair and the thought that he was still stupidly happy.


	11. Chapter 11

Marcus couldn't decide whether he felt well rested or even more drained than the day before. On the one hand, he'd slept better than he had in months—warm, comfortable, and together—but on the other, it had been a shallow, fretful sleep, haunted by the dilemma he knew they would have to face in the morning.

They were only a few hours' ride from the Wall, but that was taken into account when they had _rides_. Without both horses that would be impossible. They had been discussing this issue for hours and the only solutions they came up with were no good. Esca quickly agreed to steal a Roman horse (hopefully getting to kill the owner in the process), but Marcus convinced him they didn't need more people out to get them in this town. Marcus resolutely suggested Esca and Tanca take the horse and go together while he stay and hold back Gavrus; they would be able to get there faster even with two than they all would together. Esca had just as quickly tramped this idea, and there was no arguing with him after that. Marcus was more than a little touched that Esca wanted him with him that much, though after Marcus insisted he would be fine (these were his people, after all), he caught a strange look in Esca's eye that Marcus couldn't place.

They headed out late the next evening, when there were only a few sleepy guests in the dining room of the inn. There was no escaping the gaze of the innkeeper, however, and Marcus inwardly cringed when the man met his eye and came over to them.

"Good evening, young master. Heading out?"

Marcus shooed Esca and Tanca out the door quickly before turning to him. "Ah—yes. We must be one our way. Thank you for the room."

He hoped that would be that, but luck was not having it.

"In a hurry somewhere?"

Marcus paused, trying to read him. "I have engagements, yes. Was there something else?"

"Well… funny enough, I was told some men were here looking for you lot yesterday." He met Marcus's eye shrewdly. "Should I… let them know their search is over?"

Marcus glared. This man wasn't stupid; anyone could tell what the answer to that question would be.

The price of the innkeeper's silence was their last horse, (which, while they couldn't use it anymore was also their last bargaining chip and valuable trading item) minus a day's worth of food, which Marcus nearly threatened out of the man.

They trudged north, along the outer most skirts of the town, keeping as much to the shadows as possible even in the darkness. Marcus was still in a foul mood from the episode with the innkeeper, and Esca seemed to be in just as bad a mood himself. When Marcus calmed down enough to notice it in Esca, it was hours later, and he suggested a stop, thinking it was Esca's leg injury acting up after all the walking.

Esca was indeed limping, but when Marcus came and sat beside him, offering to massage it, Esca refused.

"But it will ease the pain some," Marcus argued. He was tired and irritated by Esca's stubbornness, and was getting more and more frustrated with the Briton's foul mood. Though if he thought he was irritated, Esca mirrored and multiplied his disposition ten fold. Marcus was finally fed up with trying to guess why he was sulking and asked him outright.

Esca hesitated a long time before answering. "Marcus… You…don't have to come with us," he paused just before the rest poured out of him quickly. "I want you to, but this is your people. And because of me, now you're an outcast here. And there's nothing for you north of the Wall. And I shouldn't have stopped you when you said you wanted to stay and send me and Tanca with the horse; of course you'd want to stay."

He quickly continued when it seemed like Marcus would interrupt him. "I give you your freedom, Roman. You're no longer my slave… don't feel like you need to follow."

Marcus was shocked, to say the least, at Esca's last hasty addition. He thought that he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been Esca's slave. But he was even more shocked that Esca would still think he had nothing for him beyond the Wall. Maybe he hadn't made it clear enough before, (because they had talked about this before, hadn't they?) and Marcus had to address this issue before he could tackle the issue of his freedom—one thing at a time. The very concept was still foggy to him, and he was honestly too tired for this. He just looked at Esca with mild disbelief and amusement, and of all the obvious counter arguments flying around his head, he couldn't think of anything to say at all.

Lest Esca do something stupid like interpret his silence as consideration of the offer, he took action. He simply took the smaller man's face in his hands (with all the boldness of a new freedman) and kissed him soundly. "Don't be stupid, Esca. I'd have you. Now let me message your leg."

Esca sat in silence while Marcus rubbed out the soreness in his leg. In fact, he was silent for so long that Marcus and Tanca were just about asleep before he said anything.

When he did it was still with quiet disbelief. "So, you'll stay? With me?"

Marcus rolled over sleepily, blinking in the direction of his voice. He mumbled something Esca couldn't hear, and when Esca said so, he pulled him down roughly with a strong arm around the waist, and Marcus spoke right into his ear.

"If you ever wanted me gone you should never have freed me… the only way I was leaving is if you had ordered me to. …And probably not even then."

ooooo

Tanca woke them with panic in his eyes, and they soon knew why: unmistakable sounds of their pursuers could be heard not far in the distance.

They scrambled up and grabbed only their weapons before taking off at a run. It was a desperate, hopeless run; Gavrus and his men still had horses, and would catch them in no time. They had left a trail a blind man could find with all their belongings abandoned at last night's campsite, and their only hope would be to find a hiding place. But even this was folly, and all would be lost if they let Gavrus get in between them and the Wall. He would block it and then just take his time flushing out every nook and cranny in the town to find them.

After twenty minutes, Esca wobbled and fell, his leg finally giving out on him. Without even looking back Marcus grabbed him up in his arms and continued running. But it soon became obvious that they were moving too slow this way, and Esca made them stop behind a building about a half hour's run from the Wall.

"Tanca, take it," he said, thrusting the dagger out to the boy. "Go with Marcus and make sure it gets home."

Tanca grimaced and stood stubbornly. Marcus said, "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not leaving you, Esca?"

"You have to! We will all die if you don't go. And the Brigantes will need a leader. Tanca must go. Marcus, make sure he gets out alive. And I won't let you get killed here either. Now go, while you still can."

Marcus stared at him fiercely before snatching the dagger and giving it to Tanca. "Keep this safe, for now." He looked back to Esca, sitting small and crumpled on the ground. He knelt down and cupped his face in a hand, eyes burning just as hotly. "I _will_ return."

With that, he spun, and, grabbing Tanca by the wrist, took off at a dead run.

Esca sat and watched them disappear into the distance. He wanted to remember the fierce pride he felt for Tanca and the feel of Marcus's warm, rough palm on his face until the Romans ripped the last breath out of him. He just breathed, listening to the sounds of men yelling and horses racing in an otherwise silent town street. He concentrated on the pain in his leg and let it feed him strength as he stood up slowly, bracing against a wall. He waited, his sword out and ready. He would die as a warrior of the Brigantes, a warrior of the Blue Shield, with all the honor of his father and brothers behind him.

His leg shook from the effort of standing when he heard the group approaching. Dozens of men, calling in voices hungry for blood. He steeled himself for the end, and almost slipped into complete battle mindset when something stopped him. It hit him like something in a dream when he realized the voices he was hearing were shouting in British. Then, like a flood in a canyon, barreling around the corner came dozens of northmen, of all clans, and all dressed in the unmistakable drab of Roman slavery. They were led by Tanca, looking somehow lordly in front of the fray, and Marcus, running proudly beside.

One of the men spoke, addressing Esca. "Esca Mac Cunnoval, of the Brigantes Blue Shield. We are indebted to Brigantes and the house of Cunnoval today, as Tanca…and, strangely, this Roman… freed us from the Roman slavers. We're here now to fight for you and your brother. He has told us everything, and we will die to get you and he to the Wall."

They were the slaves from the gladiator ring Esca and Marcus had met on their first night south of the Wall. The ones for whom Esca had sworn he would come back. All Esca could do was stare for what seemed like ages, until Marcus came up beside him with a smile and a hand on his shoulder. "We can do this now, Esca. We actually have a chance."

It was then that their pursuers came raining down upon them in the narrow alleyway, and there was no more time for talking.


	12. Chapter 12

The Romans came to a jarring halt in front of the determined barricade of Britons. Gavrus, in the lead, barely matched his look of rage with that of shock; and it was obvious from the looks on the other Roman faces that none of the other men had been expecting such a fight either.

In the stillness, while awaiting the first move, Gavrus slowly drew his short sword, making it clear they would be foregoing any negations—a fact that was just as transparent on the faces of the British slaves: they had more reason for Roman blood than the small matter between the Connovals and Gavrus.

The hissing scrape of his blade was matched by the answer of dozens of others—slave knives, stolen swords, even clubs, forks, and whips were produced as challenge. Then, like the breaking of a storm, the two small armies clashed.

They ate up the short distance between them swiftly, and the first of the Britons came in low and made quick work of de-horsing their opponents. While the grounded riders were trying to find their feet, they were leapt upon by the second wave.

Like a cat focused solely on its prey, Esca had cut through the fray like a wind, and, having jumped upon Gavrus' shoulders, was avoiding blind sweeps of his sword as the larger man tried to throw him off.

Tanca had just finished stabbing a man in the gut and crawling out from under him as he doubled over, when another came up at him from behind. In that second Tanca didn't see him, and Marcus yelled before he realized he'd thrown his own dagger, which hit the other man in the face.

The next yell that caught Marcus' ear sent a chill through his blood, and everything froze as he saw Esca land on the ground at Gavrus' feet, blood already pooling around him.

It must have been hours that he stood there looking at that scene, and yet no time at all, because he didn't even remember covering the distance to get into the space Gavrus was occupying and removing him from it with his sword—the force of his blow sending the bigger Roman sprawling backward. Already he was lying still.

But Marcus didn't see it; couldn't hear anything, all the sound was muted. Except the ragged breathing of Esca on the ground, struggling to get up. Marcus was at his side, hands everywhere, too much and not enough: frantic. "Esca, where— _where are you hurt?_ "

But Esca was holding his bad leg, and, besides the look of pain on his face, Marcus couldn't see that it looked all that bad. It was bleeding, yes, but nowhere near enough to have made the pool Esca had fallen into. A sigh of relief as Marcus realized it must have been someone else's blood. He couldn't help his small smile as he put his hand to Esca's face, as if some of his relief could smooth out the pain on Esca's face. He wasn't sure if it had helped much, but Esca met his eyes and held them. Marcus kissed him in a rush, then turned to search out Tanca.

The walls of the alleyway formed a bloodied canyon wasteland. There was so little movement and sound now it seemed as if time had yet again frozen. There were no Romans alive, and only about a handful of Britons remained on their feet. Tanca— _thank the gods_ —was among them. Marcus lamented silently for the deaths, though it was bound to happen, and thought that at least of those still alive it seemed no one was badly injured.

Except for Esca, who was still struggling to stand. His grunted drew Marcus' gaze back to him. "Stay still," he said.

Of course, Esca ignored him. It would seem he would not be the only Briton not on his feet. Marcus sighed and scooped him up, and, in turn ignoring his indignant squawk, set him upright.

Esca fumed and glared, but eventually answered Marcus' unasked question.

"He threw me down onto the leg. It's bleeding and badly bruised, but not broken, I think." And, as if reminded, Esca's leg seized and crumpled under him and Marcus had to catch him again.

"Marcus!" Marcus looked up at Tanca as he came trotting toward them. He had rounded up all the Roman's horses and were leading them over. Marcus beamed in unexpected delight and gratitude at the solution to a problem he was just beginning to realize existed. Now at least Esca could ride instead of walk and they'd all get to the Wall faster, before the rest of this city awoke and found them. With horses, even with some of them carrying double, it would be a matter of minutes until they were all safely out of Roman hands.

There were six horses that had been caught, and eight people to ride them. Marcus was happy to be one of the doubles with Esca on one of the bigger animals; he would be able to help hold the smaller Briton as he balanced with the limited use of his leg.

Then they were off and thundering through the streets of Calleva, leaving confused, sleepy faces in their wake as citizens puzzled at a band of stampeding slaves that was there and gone before anyone could do anything about it.

It was a ten minute gallop and then they saw the hard stone Wall rising up to greet them. The dozing guard jolted at the sight of them, frozen as a startled deer, and Marcus yelled, still lengths away and galloping, not planning on stopping if he could help it. The others took up the call and soon the poor man was faced with the crazed demands of a horde of screaming barbarians flying toward him and a stone wall. He didn't even have time to warn them that this marked the end of the world, before he shoved open the door and leapt out of the way.

They fled through the gates and ran, whooping with joy, until they'd put whole leagues between themselves and the Wall, and were sure no Roman in his right mind would bother coming as far for some lost slaves and traitors.

They broke down and stopped then, their horses gasping, and dismounted. Marcus helped Esca down and Esca didn't even berate him for it: he was grinning too fiercely, and he hollered with the rest of them as they jumped and danced.

All their new possibilities were like actual open doors leading out into the wilderness, one for each person's new freedom, and eventually the celebration died down to a buzzing happiness. Each northman took a minute to say his goodbyes to Esca and Tanca—and cast a quizzical yet accepting look at Marcus—and took off in separate directions with his horse.

Soon the three of them were left alone. Tanca mounted his horse and, facing pointedly northward, looked back at them, waiting. Esca looked back at Marcus, his smile faltering.

He took a step towards him. "Marcus, take a horse. You're free to go where you choose." He was studiously staring daggers at the grass, and so didn't notice Marcus' exasperated eye roll.

"How many times must I tell you, you stubborn Briton! I'm not leaving you! Not now, and not ever." He held Esca's chin to make him meet his eyes. "What must I do to prove this to you?"

Esca's eyes narrowed, doubting, like some wary animal, once bitten twice shy.

"Not ever…?"

"Not ever." He turned away, reaching for the reins. "Now, get on the horse. We have far to ride." He turned to help Esca up, but was caught by the shoulders and spun, landing against Esca's chest. Then Esca kissed him, dragging his face down to meet his. " _That_ was when you should have kissed me."

The moment was broken by the impatient pawing of Tanca's horse, and they both broke apart to look his direction. Esca groaned at the shrewd look his brother gave them, and even Marcus felt his face grow warm despite his grin.

Turning away from the boy, Esca mumbled into Marcus' shirt while trying at the same time to keep the illusion of distance. "Damn his smugness. At least we were speaking Latin."

"I hear enough for understand!" Tanca called over his shoulder in broken Latin. Marcus couldn't stop his laugh at Esca's glare.

Marcus decided to walk for a while, to give their horse a rest, and as he trudged beside, he could steal glances up at Esca. On one such glance, he caught the smaller man looking intently at his dagger, which he held in a hand, running his thumb over its shiny surface repeatedly, absently.

Sitting high above him on his tall mount, Esca looked strikingly then to Marcus like the chieftain he was: a brave warrior, beloved family member, and leader, now returning proudly with his people's honor. And Tanca, riding tall beside his brother, was a slight, wiry mirror of him: they shared the same light skin, marked with sharp blue lines, the same rugged, light build and wild, hay colored hair. They looked like Brigantes; like everyone in their clan.

Marcus fought down the voice in his head that was pointing out his own larger build, his short-cropped hair and big, stomping feet—everything that was distinctly not British about him. Where was he heading to spend the rest of his days? With a clan of people who, save for Esca and possibly his immediate family, didn't even like him at best, and at worst hated everything his people stood for? He would spend his life as the lowest kind of citizen, if he was even given that title, and would always be the butt of jokes and unkind remarks.

He thought also of his automatic promise to stay by Esca's side, wherever he went. It wasn't something he'd had to think about then, and now, he realized, that hadn't changed. It would be alright, he thought; all of it would be bearable if he could stay with Esca, if Esca wanted him.

Marcus was lost in his thoughts and didn't hear when Esca said his name.

"What?"

"You look troubled."

"No…I'm fine. Thinking."

Esca's gaze softened and he reached down to card his fingers once through Marcus' hair.

"You will be a hero, you know. You helped return the dagger, and I will make sure they know it."

Surprised at his insight, Marcus smiled, even though he wasn't convinced. "And you'll be Chief."

Esca looked ahead, scanning the horizon with far away eyes. "Maybe."

Marcus looked sharply at him, but Esca was now lost in thought and he let the matter drop.

They had been trekking for about an hour when they switched around so Marcus could ride. Tanca took a turn walking; neither of them would let Esca, because of his leg. And a similar pattern continued for hours until the light began to fade and they were forced to stop for the night. It had been a rather quiet day with little conversation, and now, sitting around their fire, it seemed even more silent without even the distraction of walking. Esca had remained sullenly thoughtful and the other two seemed happy to leave him to it.

But Tanca, young as he was, wasn't very comfortable with the charged silence, and eventually resorted to chatting with Marcus, who in turn was also grateful for the conversation. They talked somewhat awkwardly, as if pretending nothing had happened between now and when they'd been living with the clan; small talk: hunting, the horses and horse breeding, Marcus showing him how to carve figures out of small pieces of wood. But after a while their conversation became more natural and once, Tanca beamed a smile at Marcus that caught him so off guard he found himself thinking of the boy as if he were his own brother. The thought warmed him; like maybe one day Tanca would be in the picture of _he and Esca_.

Esca. He'd almost forgotten about him, and now he looked over to see that Esca had dozed off, across the fire from them. He looked peaceful for the first time in as long as Marcus could remember, and Marcus must have been smiling as much as he was staring, because after a while Tanca gave him a nudge and a _look_ , much like the one he'd given Esca earlier that day. It made him look away, blushing, and he grumbled a: "What?"

"You love him." It didn't really seem like a question, coming from the young Briton. "Is that something Romans do? Loving men? Something you taught him?"

Marcus was just a little stunned; somewhat because of Tanca's boldness, but also because the boy had lain out in plain light things he himself hadn't even realized.

"Taught him?"

"Yes. Because he loves you too now."

"Really." Marcus tried desperately to make it sound cool and indifferent, as if questioning Tanca's knowledge. This was quickly going in directions Marcus really didn't want to follow, not with Esca's little brother.

"Yes. I can see it when he watches you. He would follow you anywhere if you asked." Tanca met his eyes then, and Marcus thought there was a certain spark in them that wasn't exactly friendly anymore. He realized it was fear masked with a vague threat: Tanca was worried Marcus would use his power over Esca to ask him away from his people—from Tanca.

"You know I'm not his slave anymore. He freed me."

"I thought so."

Marcus sighed and dropped a hand onto the boy's shoulder. "I'm not going to take him away from you."

"Our clan needs him. We will need a chief and it is him. His place is with us."

Marcus paused, hoping the hurt he felt didn't show too plainly on his face. "And what of me? Where should I go? Where is my place, Tanca Mac Connoval?"

"Your place is with the Brigantes now. If you leave…if you leave, you will take Esca with you, at least in spirit. He might stay out of duty, but he will shrivel like a dead tree beaten by the wind until he is hollow on the inside." Tanca studied him and Marcus thought of how he had aged since he'd last seen him. "I know my brother," he added, before Marcus could question. It seemed both these Brigantes could read his mind.

"And also, I would miss you."

Marcus looked at him in heartwarming surprise, unable to find anything to answer.

"You had become like family to me once, before. Remember? And, if my brother has chosen you, you must be good."


	13. Chapter 13

The familiar hills sloped down into the Brigantes' valley, and, as they crested the ridge, the sprawling cluster of huts and fields was a welcome sight. They each breathed a sigh of relief, though Esca's shoulders were still tense with contemplation.

Scouts noticed them immediately and charged at them on ponies before stopping short with recognition. They stared in silence until Esca nudged his horse forward and they parted like waves before him. Esca and Tanca shared a glance and a smirk, and then took off at a gallop, hollering and whooping, the scouts following them, also taking up the victory call.

It was only a short sprint, and wouldn't take long to catch up, but Marcus couldn't help feeling a little left out as he picked up his pace on foot. By the time he'd caught up, a crowd had formed around his friends, a mixture of stunned silence and jovial cheering. He saw Esca hold up the dagger in a fist above his head and pull Tanca against his shoulder roughly and affectionately. Marcus watched it all from outside the circle of people, as if watching a skit performed by players.

A woman he recognized as Esca's mother pushed forward and grabbed onto her boys, hugging and sniffling. Soon the men had ushered Esca and Tanca toward the large banquet hut, and the women had scattered into organized chaos as they bustled to prepare food. Marcus had learned enough about the Brigantes to know that a story like theirs would need the accompaniment of a party, feast, and all night celebration.

No one had looked at Marcus save for the passing, almost instinctual glance that determined he was not a threat. Soon he was alone in the square. Eventually he turned to tend to the horses, but found that they had already been taken care of. He sighed. For the first time in what felt like forever, he doubted his place among these people. Did they remember him? Did they still see him as just another Roman? He didn't even know what reception he would have if he followed the group into the hut.

He turned slowly and walked out across the other side of the village. After a while his feet had taken him to the edge of the lake where he and Esca had often passed the time while he tended to Esca's leg injury. He sat by the shore and chucked stones into its glassy surface until the sky darkened and the rhythm of drums and the flicker of bonfires found him.

He stood up and turned to head back, when he heard his name called from the top of the bank. It was Esca, and he could see the smaller man squinting into the darkness at him, backlit by firelight.

"What are you doing out here? Is this where you've been?" he said as he jumped down and approached him.

Marcus nodded. "I just…didn't want to interrupt."

Esca scoffed. "Interrupt? Your own party?"

Marcus put on a smile just to deflect the conversation. He didn't want to argue with Esca about the obvious fact that this was very much not his party.

"Marcus," unfortunately, Esca could read him too well. "I know you don't believe me. But it's true. I'll make sure they know it. And besides," he sat deliberately on the rock Marcus had been on, "I'm not going unless you are."

"What?" Marcus chuckled nervously, "Of course you are."

" _Marcus_ —"

"What did you mean, 'maybe'?"

Esca was taken aback. "Maybe what?"

"You said 'maybe' when I said you'd be chief when we got back. Why?"

Esca dropped his gaze. "Nothing. I meant nothing."

" _Esca_ —"

"If you can avoid questions then so can I, Roman." He smirked and stood up, chest to chest with Marcus. "Now, come to the party. We have a story to tell."

The banquet hut was full to bursting, just barely able to hold every member of the clan; where normally it was only for the men, now the women—even the children—wouldn't be excluded, and so every inch of floor was occupied. It was a long rectangular structure with a long, narrow fire pit that ran up the center around which all the food was arranged and the whole ensemble ringed with the guests.

At the head of the pit were platforms covered in pelts and meant for the persons of honor. Esca sat on one, and Tanca at his side. There was a feeling of contentment from the crowd at the sight of Connovals again at the head, as if a wrong had been rectified.

They had come in amongst the commotion of arranging food and passing drink, Esca leading Marcus by the hand. He was now sitting to Esca's left, slightly behind him as the circle was a bit cramped, and was listening to him tell their story.

Esca was a good storyteller, using all the right tones and inflections, pausing for suspense, and eliciting responses from his audience in all the right places. Even Marcus found himself rapt listening to Esca talk. His thoughts added images to the words, and he was so lost in thought and the story that he barely heard when Esca pointedly said that he couldn't have done any of it with out Marcus.

Marcus looked up sharply, then out at the people, wary and curious as to their reaction. There were murmurs, and he thought he caught something like "…just the help of a slave…"

"Not a slave!" Esca's voice was sharp, and he stared down the man who had said it, though Marcus hadn't even noticed who it had been. "He is a free man, one of us, and he knows more about honor and loyalty than you."

Marcus was shocked, and so was everyone present. Esca's eyes were burning as if he dared the man to argue. Marcus didn't think Esca had any quarrel with him, but to ruin a friendship like that, just to stand up for him—it was a little too much for Marcus.

"Esca…"

Someone spoke up. "What will you do now, Esca? Will you claim your father's place as chieftain? And what will he do?" A glance at Marcus. "If he is not a slave, or prisoner, what is he?"

Esca hesitated, and Marcus wondered which question he wasn't sure of. Another man spoke: "We need a chief, Esca, and it should be a Connoval. It could all be yours. You have certainly earned it. What say you?"

Esca looked at Marcus then, and held his gaze. Marcus realized he must know Esca as well as Esca knows him, because he understood what was being said by the look. Esca was looking at him as if his opinion would make the decision, as if whatever he said at that moment would trump the voices of everyone in the room. This was about being chieftain, and he realized it was what had been bothering Esca since the Wall. Marcus had never imagined that Esca would not take the position, but now he found himself wondering what would happen if he didn't. And the other question of what would happen with him, if he didn't. Or even if he did—Marcus realized he hadn't really given it much thought either way. In some vague way, he had always just thought he'd be _with_ Esca, he didn't know what form that would take.

But Esca was asking him now what he wanted to do—what he wanted Esca to do. He took Esca's hand discretely and said quietly, "Do whatever you want to do. But please…let me stay with you."

Esca breathed a laugh—a shocked noise—and tightened his grip for a second. " _Let you?_ Marcus," He leaned closer and closed his eyes, dropping his voice further. "I was willing to beg…"

Marcus smiled slightly and kissed the back of their entwined hands. "Well, you don't have to."

Esca stood up to make his declaration. "I will be chieftain, but Marcus will be beside me."

There was a sudden commotion as everyone reacted to this. It was obvious that no one wanted a Roman with their chief. Esca was angry and about to speak again when Tanca stood up.

"Quiet! This is Esca mac Connoval, show him respect!"

All eyes jumped to the youngest Connoval, most having forgotten he was there. Esca was looking at him with surprise and pride, but he turned back to the crowd shortly.

"That is my condition if you want me as chieftain. However, I have no desire to be a leader hated by his people, and less desire for Marcus to be hated by his people—which is something I will not tolerate, chief or not. So, in light of this, I have another idea now, something I have been debating with myself, and now believe it's what is best."

Everyone was watching and listening intently now, even Marcus who, along with Tanca, was looking at him questioningly.

"There should be a Connoval leading the Brigantes, but I am not the only Connoval left." Esca looked at his brother. "Tanca should be chief. If he wants it."

Tanca looked stunned, but he recovered quickly and stood up straighter. He nodded curtly. The crowd didn't seem to know what to say.

"Good. It is done then. Of course, since he is still young, I will be his advisor. But for the rest of the time," he turned to Marcus, "I will live with Marcus together with our own land and house. And he will be initiated as a Brigantes, and he will be respected and included; a son of the blue shield. This is what I claim for the return of the dagger and the honor of the Brigantes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I love feedback :)


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